Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (25 page)

Oily smoke oozed from the severed neck to create a second head, formless and vague. Coal-red eyes glittered within the smoke.

“Get back!” shouted Serbitar. “Get away from him!”

This time she obeyed, backing toward the albino.

“Give me the sword.”

Vintar and Rek had joined them.

“What on earth is it?” whispered Rek.

“Nothing on earth,” replied Vintar.

The thing stood its ground, arms folded across its chest.

“The ship is heading for the rocks,” said Virae, and Serbitar nodded.

“It is keeping us from the wheel. What do you think, Father Abbot?”

“The spell was planted in the head, which must be thrown overboard. The beast will follow it,” replied Vintar. “Attack it.”

Serbitar moved forward, supported by Rek. The corpse bent its body, right hand closing on the hair of the severed head. Holding the head to its chest, it waited for the attack.

Rek leapt forward, slashing a cut at the arm. The corpse staggered. Serbitar ran in, slicing the tendons behind the knee. As it fell, Rek hammered the blade two-handed across its arm. The arm fell clear, the fingers releasing the head, which rolled across the deck. Dropping his sword, Rek dived at it. Swallowing his revulsion, he lifted it by the hair and hurled it over the side. As it hit the waves, the corpse on the deck shuddered. As if torn by a great wind, the smoke flowed from the neck to vanish beneath the rail and into the darkness of the deep.

The captain came forward from the shadows by the mast.

“What was it?” he asked.

Vintar joined him, placing a hand gently on the man’s shoulder.

“We have many enemies,” he said. “They have great powers. But fear not. We are not powerless, and no harm will befall the ship again. I promise you.”

“And what of his soul?” asked the captain, wandering to the rail. “Have they taken it?”

“It is free,” said Vintar. “Believe me.”

“We will all be free,” said Rek, “if someone doesn’t turn the ship away from those rocks.”

In the darkened tent of Nosta Khan the acolytes silently backed out, leaving him sitting in the center of the circle chalked on the dirt floor. Lost in thought, Nosta Khan ignored them. He was drained and angry.

For they had bested him, and he was a man unused to defeat. It tasted bitter in his mouth.

He smiled.

There would be another time …

16

B
lessed by a
following wind,
Wastrel
sped north until at last the silver gray towers of Dros Purdol broke the line of the horizon. The ship entered the harbor a little before noon, piloting past the Drenai war triremes and the merchant vessels anchored in the bay.

On the milling docks street traders sold charms, ornaments, weapons, and blankets to mariners, while burly dockers carried provisions up swaying gangplanks, stacking cargo and checking loads. All was noise and apparent confusion.

The harborside was rich in color and the hectic pace of city life, and Rek felt a pang of regret to be leaving the ship. As Serbitar led the Thirty ashore, Rek and Virae said their good-byes to the captain.

“With one exception, it has been a more than pleasant voyage,” Virae told him. “I thank you for your courtesy.”

“I was glad to be of service, my lady. I will forward the marriage papers to Drenan on my return. It was a first for me. I have never taken part in the wedding of an earl’s daughter, much less conducted one. I wish you well.” Bending forward, he kissed her hand.

He wanted to add “Long life and happiness,” but he knew their destination.

Virae strode down the gangplank as Rek gripped the captain’s hand. He was surprised when the man embraced him.

“May your sword arm be strong, your spirit lucky, and your horse swift when the time comes,” he said.

Rek grinned. “The first two I will need. As to the horse, do you believe
that
lady will consider flight?”

“No, she’s a wonderful lass. Be lucky.”

“I will try hard,” said Rek.

At the quayside a young red-caped officer eased his way through the crowd to confront Serbitar.

“Your business in Dros Purdol?” he asked.

“We are traveling to Delnoch as soon as we can obtain horses,” answered the albino.

“The fortress will soon be under siege, sir. Are you aware of the coming war?”

“We are. We travel with the Lady Virae, daughter of Earl Delnar, and her husband, Regnak.”

Seeing Virae, the officer bowed. “A pleasure, my lady. We met at your eighteenth birthday celebration last year. You probably won’t remember me.”

“On the contrary, Dun Degas! We danced, and I trod on your foot. You were most kind and took the blame.”

Degas smiled and bowed again. How she has changed! he thought. Where was the clumsy girl who had contrived to trip on the hem of her skirt? Who had blushed as red as the wine when, during a heated conversation, she had crushed a crystal goblet, drenching the woman to her right. What had changed? She was the same woman-girl he remembered—her hair mousy blond, her mouth too wide, her brows thunder-dark over deep-set eyes. He saw her smile as Rek stepped forward, and his question was answered. She had become desirable.

“What are you thinking, Degas?” she asked. “You look far away.”

“My apologies, my lady. I was thinking Earl Pindak will be delighted to receive you.”

“You will have to convey my regrets,” said Virae, “for we must leave as soon as possible. Where can we purchase mounts?”

“I am sure we can find you good horses,” said Degas. “It is a shame you did not arrive sooner, since four days ago we sent three hundred men to Delnoch to aid the defense. You could have traveled with them; it would have been safer. The Sathuli have grown bold since the Nadir threat.”

“We shall get there,” said the tall man with Virae. Degas’s eyes measured him. A soldier, he thought, or has been at some time. Carries himself well. Degas directed the party to a large inn, promising to supply the horses within two hours.

True to his word, he returned with a troop of Drenai cavalrymen riding thirty-two horses. They were not of the pedigree of the mounts left behind in Lentria, being mustangs bred for mountain work, but they were sturdy animals. When the horses had been allocated and the provisions packed, Degas approached Rek.

“There is no charge for these mounts, but I would be obliged if you could deliver these dispatches to the earl. They came by sea from Drenan yesterday and missed our force. The one with the red seal is from Abalayn.”

“The earl will receive them,” said Rek. “Thank you for your help.”

“It is nothing. Good luck!” The officer moved on to make his farewells to Virae. Pushing the letters into the saddlebag of his roan mare, Rek mounted and led the party west from Purdol along the line of the Delnoch mountains. Serbitar cantered alongside him as they entered the first of the deep woods beyond the town.

“You look troubled,” said Rek.

“Yes. There will be outlaws, renegades, perhaps deserters, and certainly Sathuli tribesmen along our route.”

“But that is not what troubles you.”

“You are perceptive,” said Serbitar.

“How true. But then, I saw the corpse walk.”

“Indeed you did,” said Serbitar.

“You have hedged about that night for long enough,” said Rek. “Now give me the truth of it. Do you know what it was?”

“Vintar believes it to be a demon summoned by Nosta Khan. He is the head shaman to Ulric’s Wolfshead tribe and therefore lord of all Nadir shamans. He is old, and it is said he first served Ulric’s great-grandfather. He is a man steeped in evil.”

“And his powers are greater than yours?”

“Individually, yes. Collectively? I don’t think so. We are currently stopping him from entering Delnoch, but he in turn has cast a veil over the fortress and we cannot enter.”

“Will he attack us again?” asked Rek.

“Assuredly. The question is what method he will choose.”

“I think I will leave you to worry about that,” said Rek. “I can take in only so much gloom in one day.”

Serbitar did not answer him. Rek reined his mount and waited for Virae.

That night they camped by a mountain stream but lit no fires. In the early evening Vintar recited poetry, his voice soft and melodious, his words evocative.

“They are his own work,” Serbitar whispered to Virae, “though he will not own to them. I know not why. He is a fine poet.”

“But they are so sad,” she said.

“All beauty is sad,” replied the albino. “For it fades.”

He left her and retreated to a nearby willow, sitting with his back to the tree, a silver ghost in the moonlight.

Arbedark joined Rek and Virae, handing them honey cakes he had purchased at the port. Rek glanced over at the lonely figure of the albino.

“He travels,” said Arbedark. “Alone.”

As the dawn bird song began, Rek groaned and eased his aching body away from the probing tree roots that were denting his side. His eyes opened. Most of the Thirty were still asleep, though tall Antaheim stood sentry by the stream. At the willow Serbitar remained where he had been during the recital.

Rek sat up and stretched, his mouth dry. Pushing back his blanket, he walked to the horses, removed his pack, rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen, and went to the stream. Taking out a bar of soap, he stripped the shirt from his chest and knelt by the swiftly rushing water.

“Please don’t do that,” said Antaheim.

“What?”

The tall warrior walked across to him, squatting by his side. “The soap bubbles will carry downstream. It is not wise thus to announce our movements.”

Rek cursed himself for a fool and apologized swiftly.

“That is not necessary. I am sorry to have intruded. Do you see that plant there, by the lichen rock?” Rek twisted, then nodded. “It is a lemon mint. Wash in the water, then crush some of the leaves and clean your body. It will refresh you and create … a more pleasant aroma.”

“Thank you. Is Serbitar still traveling?”

“He should not be. I will seek him.” Antaheim closed his eyes for several seconds. When they opened again, Rek recognized panic, and the warrior ran from the stream. In that moment all the members of the Thirty surged from their blankets and raced to Serbitar by the willow.

Rek dropped his shirt and soap on the bank and moved to join them. Vintar was bending over the albino’s still form; he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the young leader’s slender face. For long moments he remained thus. Sweat broke out upon his forehead, and he began to sway. When he lifted a hand, Menahem joined him instantly, raising Serbitar’s head. The swarthy warrior lifted the albino’s right eyelid: the iris was red as blood.

Virae dropped to her knees beside Rek. “His eyes are green normally,” she said. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know,” said Rek.

Antaheim rose from the group and sprinted for the undergrowth, returning minutes later with what appeared to be an armful of vine leaves, which he tipped to the ground. Gathering dried twigs, he fashioned a small fire; then, setting up a tripod of branches, he hung a pot above the flames, filled it with water, and crushed the leaves between his palms, dropping them into the pot. Soon the water began to bubble, and a sweet aroma filled the air. Antaheim lifted the pan from the flames, adding cold water from his canteen, then transferred the green liquid to a leather-covered pottery mug, which he passed to Menahem. Slowly they opened Serbitar’s mouth, and while Vintar held the albino’s nostrils, they poured in the liquid. Serbitar gagged and swallowed, and Vintar released his nose. Menahem laid his head back on the grass, and Antaheim swiftly killed the fire. There had been little smoke.

“What’s going on?” asked Rek as Vintar approached him.

“We will talk later,” said Vintar. “Now I must rest.” He stumbled to his blankets and lay down, slipping instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

“I feel like a one-legged man in a footrace,” said Rek.

Menahem joined them, his dark face gray with exhaustion as he sipped water from a leather canteen. He stretched his long legs out on the grass and lay on his side, supporting himself on his elbow. He turned toward Rek.