Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (24 page)

“I heard about that,” said Bregan. “But I thought he had withdrawn after making a treaty with the king.”

“Dun Pinar says the king agreed to be Ulric’s vassal and Ulric holds the king’s son hostage. The nation is his.”

“He must be a pretty clever man,” said Bregan. “But what would he do if he ever conquered the whole world? I mean, what good is it? I would like a bigger farm and a house with several floors. That I can understand. But what would I do with ten farms? Or a hundred?”

“You would be rich and powerful. Then you could tell your tenant farmers what to do, and they would all bow as you rode past in your fine carriage.”

“That doesn’t appeal to me, not at all,” said Bregan.

“Well, it does to me,” said Gilad. “I’ve always hated it when I had to tug the forelock for some passing nobleman on a tall horse. The way they look at you, despising you because you work a smallholding; paying more money for their handmade boots than I can earn in a year of slaving. No, I wouldn’t mind being rich, so pig-awful rich that no man could ever look down on me again.”

Gilad turned his face away to stare out over the plains, his anger fierce, almost tangible.

“Would you look down on people, then, Gil? Would you despise me because I wanted to remain a farmer?”

“Of course not. A man should be free to do what he wants to do as long as it doesn’t hurt others.”

“Maybe that’s why Ulric wants to control everything. Maybe he is sick of everyone looking down on the Nadir.”

Gilad turned back to Bregan, and his anger died within him.

“Do you know, Breg, that’s just what Pinar said when I asked him if he hated Ulric for wanting to smash the Drenai. He said, ‘Ulric isn’t trying to smash the Drenai but to raise the Nadir.’ I think Pinar admires him.”

“The man I admire is Orrin,” said Bregan. “It must have taken great courage to come out and train with the men as he has done. Especially being as unpopular as he was. I was so pleased when he won back the swords.”

“Only because you won five silver pieces on him,” Gilad pointed out.

“That’s not fair, Gil! I backed him because he was Karnak; I backed you, too.”

“You backed me for a quarter copper and him for a half silver, according to Drebus, who took your bet.”

Bregan tapped his nose, smiling. “Ah, but then you don’t pay the same price for a goat as for a horse. But the thought was there. After all, I knew you couldn’t win.”

“I damn near had that Bar Britan. It was a judge’s decision at the last.”

“True,” said Bregan. “But you would never have beaten Pinar or that fellow with the earring from the legion. But what’s even more to the point, you never could have beaten Orrin. I’ve seen you both fence.”

“Such judgment!” said Gilad. “It’s small wonder to me that you didn’t enter yourself, so great is your knowledge.”

“I don’t have to fly in order to know that the sky is blue,” said Bregan. “Anyway, who did you back?”

“Gan Hogun.”

“Who else? Drebus said you had placed two bets,” said Bregan innocently.

“You know very well. Drebus would have told you.”

“I didn’t think to ask.”

“Liar! Well, I don’t care. I backed myself to reach the last fifty.”

“And you were so close,” said Bregan. “Only one strike in it.”

“One lucky blow and I could have won a month’s wages.”

“Such is life,” said Bregan. “Maybe next year you can come back and have another try.”

“And maybe corn will grow on the backs of camels!” said Gilad.

Back at the keep Druss was struggling to keep his temper as the city elders argued back and forth about the Nadir offer. Word had spread to them with bewildering speed, and Druss had barely managed to eat a chunk of bread and cheese before a messenger from Orrin informed him that the elders had called a meeting.

It was a Drenai rule, long established, that except in time of battle the elders had a democratic right to see the city lord and debate matters of importance. Neither Orrin nor Druss could refuse. No one could argue that Ulric’s ultimatum was unimportant.

Six men constituted the city elders, an elected body that effectively ruled all trade within the city. The master burgher and chief elder was Bricklyn, who had entertained Druss so royally on the night of the assassination attempt. Malphar, Backda, Shinell, and Alphus were all merchants, while Beric was a nobleman, a distant cousin of Earl Delnar and highly placed in city life. Only lack of a real fortune kept him at Delnoch and away from Drenan, which he loved.

Shinell, a fat, oily silk merchant, was the main cause of Druss’s anger. “But surely we have a right to discuss Ulric’s terms and must be allowed a say in whether they are accepted or rejected,” he said again. “It is of vital interest to the city, after all, and by right of law our vote must carry.”

“You know full well, my dear Shinell,” said Orrin smoothly, “that the city elders have full rights to discuss all civil matters. This situation hardly falls within that category. Nevertheless, your point of view is noted.”

Malphar, a red-faced wine dealer of Lentrian stock, interrupted Shinell as he began his protest. “We are getting nowhere with this talk of rules and precedent. The fact remains that we are virtually at war. Is it a war we can win?” His green eyes scanned the faces around him, and Druss tapped his fingers on the tabletop, the only outward sign of his tensions. “Is it a war we can carry long enough to force an honorable peace? I don’t think it is,” continued Malphar. “It is all nonsense. Abalayn has run the army down until it is only a tenth of the size it was a few years ago. The navy has been halved. This Dros was last under siege two centuries ago, when it almost fell. Yet our records tell us that we had forty thousand warriors in the field.”

“Get on with it, man! Make your point,” said Druss.

“I shall, but spare me your harsh looks, Druss. I am no coward. What I am saying is this: If we cannot hold and cannot win, what is the point of this defense?”

Orrin glanced at Druss, and the old warrior leaned forward. “The point is,” he said, “that you don’t know whether you’ve lost—until you’ve lost. Anything can happen: Ulric could suffer a stroke; plague could hit the Nadir forces. We have to try to hold.”

“What about the women and children?” asked Backda, a skull-faced lawyer and property owner.

“What about them?” said Druss. “They can leave at any time.”

“To go where, pray? And with what monies?”

“Ye gods!” thundered Druss, surging to his feet. “What will you be wanting me to do next? Where they go—if they do—how they go—is their concern and yours. I am a soldier, and my job is to fight and kill. And believe me, I do that very well. We have been ordered to fight to the last, and that we will do.

“Now, I may not know very much about law and all the little niceties of city politics, but I do know this: Any man who speaks of surrender during the coming siege is a traitor.

“And I will see him hang.”

“Well said, Druss,” offered Beric, a tail middle-aged man with shoulder-length gray hair. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Very stirring.” He smiled as Druss sank back to his seat. “There is one point, though. You say you have been asked to fight to the end. That order can always be changed; politics being what it is, the question of expediency comes into it. At the moment it is expedient for Abalayn to ask us to prepare for war. He may feel it gives him greater bargaining power with Ulric. Ultimately, though, he must consider surrender. Facts are facts: The tribes have conquered every nation they have attacked, and Ulric is a general above comparison.

“I suggest we write to Abalayn and urge him to reconsider this war.”

Orrin shot Druss a warning glance.

“Very well put, Beric,” he said. “Obviously Druss and I, as loyal military men, must vote against it; however, feel free to write and I will see the petition is forwarded with the first available rider.”

“Thank you, Orrin. That is very civilized of you,” said Beric. “Now can we move on to the subject of the demolished homes?”

Ulric sat before the brazier, a sheepskin cloak draped over his naked torso. Before him squatted the skeletal figure of his shaman, Nosta Khan.

“What do you mean?” Ulric asked him.

“As I said, I can no longer travel over the fortress. There is a barrier to my power. Last night, as I floated above Deathwalker, I felt a force like a storm wind. It pushed me back beyond the outer wall.”

“And you saw nothing?”

“No. But I sensed … felt …”

“Speak!”

“It is difficult. In my mind I could feel the sea and a slender ship. It was a fragment only. Also there was a mystic with white hair. I have puzzled long over this. I believe Deathwalker has called upon a white temple.”

“And their power is greater than yours?” said Ulric.

“Merely different,” hedged the shaman.

“If they are coming by sea, then they will make for Dros Purdol,” said Ulric, staring into the glimmering coals. “Seek them out.”

The shaman closed his eyes, freed the chains of his spirit, and soared free of his body. Formless, he raced high above the plain, over hills and rivers, mountains and streams, skirting the Delnoch range until at last the sea lay below him, shimmering beneath the stars. Far he roved before sighting
Wastrel
, picking out the tiny glint of her aft lantern.

Swiftly he dropped from the sky to hover by the mast. By the port rail stood a man and a woman. Gently he probed their minds, then drifted down through the wooden deck, beyond the hold, and onto the cabins. These he could not enter, however. As lightly as the whisper of a sea breeze, he touched the edge of the invisible barrier. It hardened before him, and he recoiled. He floated to the deck, closing on the mariner at the stern, smiled, then raced back toward the waiting Nadir warlord.

Nosta Khan’s body trembled, and his eyes opened.

“Well?” asked Ulric.

“I found them.”

“Can you destroy them?”

“I believe so. I must gather my acolytes.”

On
Wastrel
Vintar rose from his bed, his eyes troubled, his mind uneasy. He stretched.

“You felt it, too,” pulsed Serbitar, swinging his long legs clear of the second bed.

“Yes. We must be wary.”

“He did not try to breach the shield,” said Serbitar. “Was that a sign of weakness or confidence?”

“I don’t know,” answered the abbot.

Above them at the stern the second mate rubbed his tired eyes, slipped a looped rope over the wheel, and transferred his gaze to the stars. He had always been fascinated by these flickering, far-off candles. Tonight they were brighter than usual, like gems strewn on a velvet cloak. A priest had once told him they were holes in the universe through which the bright eyes of the gods gazed down on the peoples of the earth. It was pretty nonsense, but he had enjoyed listening.

Suddenly he shivered. Turning, he lifted his cloak from the aft rail and slung it about his shoulders. He rubbed his hands.

Floating behind him, the spirit of Nosta Khan lifted its hands, focusing power upon the long fingers. Talons grew, glinting like steel, serrated and sharp. Satisfied, he closed in on the mariner, plunging his hands into the man’s head.

Searing agony blanketed the brain within as the man staggered and fell, blood pouring from his mouth and ears and seeping from his eyes. Without a sound he died. Nosta Khan loosened his grip. Drawing on the power of his acolytes, he willed the body to rise, whispering words of obscenity in a language long erased from the minds of ordinary men. Darkness swelled around the corpse, shifting like black smoke to be drawn in through the bloody mouth. The body shuddered.

And rose.

Unable to sleep, Virae dressed silently, climbed to the deck, and wandered to the port rail. The night was cool, the soft breeze soothing. She gazed out over the waves to the distant line of land silhouetted against the bright, moonlit sky.

The view always calmed her, the blending of land and sea. As a child at school in Dros Purdol she had delighted in sailing, especially at night, when the land mass appeared to float like a sleeping monster of the deep, dark and mysterious and wonderfully compelling.

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. Was the land moving? To her left the mountains seemed to be receding, while on the right the shoreline seemed closer. No, not
seemed. Was
. She glanced at the stars. The ship had veered northwest, yet they were days from Purdol.

Puzzled, she walked aft toward the second mate as he stood with hands on the wheel.

“Where are we heading?” she asked him, mounting the four steps to the stern and leaning on the rail.

His head turned toward her. Blank, blood-red eyes locked on hers as his hands left the wheel and reached for her.

Fear entered her soul like a lance, only to be quelled by rising anger. She was not some Drenai milkmaid to be terrified thus; she was Virae, and she carried the blood of warriors in her veins.

Dropping her shoulder, she threw a right hand punch to his jaw. His head snapped back, but still he came on. Stepping inside the groping arms, she grabbed his hair and smashed a head butt into his face. He took it without a sound, his hands curling around her throat. Twisting desperately before the grip tightened, she threw him with a rolling hip lock, and he hit the deck hard on his back. Virae staggered. He rose slowly and came for her again.

Running forward, she leapt into the air and twisted, hammering both feet into his face. He fell once more.

And rose.

Panicked now, Virae searched for a weapon, but there was nothing. Smoothly she vaulted the wheel rail to land on the deck. He followed her.

“Move away from him!” screamed Serbitar, racing forward with sword drawn. Virae ran to him.

“Give me that!” she said, tearing the sword from his hand. Confidence surged in her as her hand gripped the ebony hilt. “Now, you son of a slut!” she shouted, striding toward the mariner.

He made no effort to avoid her, and the sword flashed in the moonlight, slicing into his exposed neck. Twice more she struck, and the grinning head toppled from the body. But the corpse did not fall.