Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (3 page)

“You may not actually be magnificent,” he told his reflection, “but by all the gods in Missael you
look
it!”

The eyes smiled back at him. “Don’t you mock me, Regnak Wanderer,” he said. Throwing his cloak over his arm, he strolled downstairs to the long room, casting an eye over the early crowd. Horeb hailed him from the bar.

“Now, that’s more like it, Rek my lad,” he said, leaning back in mock admiration. “You could have stepped straight from one of Sieben’s poems. Drink?”

“No. I think I will leave it a while yet—like ten years. Last night’s brew is still fermenting in my gullet. Have you packed me some of your vile food for the journey?”

“Maggoty biscuits, mildewed cheese, and a two-year-old back of bacon that will come when you call it,” answered Horeb. “And a flask of the worst—”

Conversation ceased as the seer entered the inn, his faded blue habit flapping against bony legs, his quarterstaff tapping on the wooden boards. Rek swallowed his disgust at the man’s appearance and avoided glancing at the ruined sockets where once the man’s eyes had been.

The old man pushed out a hand on which the third finger was missing. “Silver for your future,” he said, his voice like a dry wind whispering through winter branches.

“Why do they do it?” whispered Horeb.

“Their eyes, you mean?” countered Rek.

“Yes. How can a man put out his own eyes?”

“Damned if I know. They say it aids their visions.”

“Sounds about as sensible as cutting off your staff in order to aid your sex life.”

“It takes all sorts, Horeb, old friend.”

Drawn by the sound of their voices, the old man hobbled nearer, hand outstretched. “Silver for your future,” he intoned. Rek turned away.

“Go on, Rek,” urged Horeb. “See if the journey bodes well. Where’s the harm?”

“You pay. I will listen,” said Rek.

Horeb thrust a hand deep into the pocket of his leather apron and dropped a small silver coin into the old man’s palm. “For my friend here,” he said. “I know my future.”

The old man squatted on the wooden floor and reached into a tattered pouch, producing a fistful of sand, which he sprinkled about him. Then he produced six knucklebones bearing crafted runes.

“They’re human bones, aren’t they?” whispered Horeb.

“So they say,” answered Rek. The old man began to chant in the Elder tongue, his quavering voice echoing in the silence. He threw the bones to the sandy floor, then ran his hands over the runes.

“I have the truth,” he said at last.

“Never mind the truth, old man. Give me a tale full of golden lies and glorious maidens.”

“I have the truth,” said the seer, as if he had not heard.

“The hell with it!” said Rek. “Tell me the truth, old man.”

“Do you desire to hear it, man?”

“Never mind the damned ritual, just speak and begone!”

“Steady, Rek, steady! It’s his way,” said Horeb.

“Maybe. But he’s going a long way toward spoiling my day. They never give good news, anyway. The old bastard’s probably going to tell me I shall catch the plague.”

“He wishes the truth,” said Horeb, following the ritual, “and will use it wisely and well.”

“Indeed he does not and will not,” said the seer. “But destiny must be heard. You do not wish to hear words of your death, Regnak the Wanderer, son of Argas, and so I will withhold them. You are a man of uncertain character and only a sporadic courage. You are a thief and a dreamer, and your destiny will both haunt and hunt you. You will run to avoid it, yet your steps will carry you toward it. But then, this you know, Longshanks, for you dreamed it yester-eve.”

“Is that it, old man? That meaningless garbage? Is that fair trading for a silver coin?”

“The earl and the legend will be together at the wall. And men shall dream, and men shall die, but shall the fortress fall?”

The old man turned and was gone.

“What was your dream last night, Rek?” asked Horeb.

“You surely don’t believe that idiocy, Horeb?”

“What was your dream?” the innkeeper persisted.

“I didn’t dream at all. I slept like a log. Except for that bloody candle. You left it on all night, and it stank. You must be more careful. It could have started a fire. Every time I stop here, I warn you about those candles. You never listen.”

2

R
ek watched in
silence as the groom saddled the chestnut gelding. He did not like the horse; it had a mean eye, and its ears lay flat against its skull. The groom, a young slim boy, was crooning gently to it as his shaking fingers tightened the girth.

“Why couldn’t you get a gray?” asked Rek. Horeb laughed.

“Because it would have taken you one step too many toward farce. Understatement is the thing, Rek. You already look like a peacock, and as it is, every Lentrian sailor will be chasing you. No, a chestnut’s the thing.” More seriously he added, “And in Graven you may wish to be inconspicuous. A tall white horse is not easily missed.”

“I don’t think it likes me. See the way it looks at me?”

“Its sire was one of the fastest horses in Drenan; its dam was a war-horse in Woundweaver’s lancers. You couldn’t get a better pedigree.”

“What is it called?” asked Rek, still unconvinced.

“Lancer,” answered Horeb.

“That has a nice ring to it. Lancer … Well, maybe … just maybe.”

“Daffodil’s ready, sir,” said the groom, backing away from the chestnut. The horse swung its head, snapping at the retreating boy, who stumbled and fell on the cobbles.

“Daffodil?” said Rek. “You bought me a horse called
Daffodil
?”

“What’s in a name, Rek?” answered Horeb innocently. “Call it what you like; you must admit it’s a fine beast.”

“If I didn’t have a fine sense for the ridiculous, I would have it muzzled. Where are the girls?”

“Too busy to be waving good-bye to layabouts who rarely pay their bills. Now, be off with you.”

Rek advanced gingerly toward the gelding, speaking softly. It turned a baleful eye on him but allowed him to swing into the high-backed saddle. He gathered the reins, adjusted his blue cloak to just the right angle over the horse’s back, and swung the beast toward the gate.

“Rek, I almost forgot,” called Horeb, pushing back toward the house. “Wait a moment!” The burly innkeeper disappeared from sight, emerging seconds later carrying a short bow of horn and yew and a quiver of black-shafted arrows. “Here. A customer left this behind in part payment some months ago. It looks like a sturdy weapon.”

“Wonderful,” said Rek. “I used to be a fine bowman.”

“Yes,” said Horeb. “Just remember when you use it that the sharp end is pointed away from you. Now begone—and take care.”

“Thanks, Horeb. You, too. And remember what I said about candles.”

“I will. On your way, boy. Be lucky now.”

Rek rode from the south gate as the watchmen trimmed the lantern wicks. The dawn shadows were shrinking on the streets of Drenan, and young children played beneath the portcullis. He had chosen the southern route for the most obvious of reasons. The Nadir were marching from the north, and the fastest way from a battle was a straight line in the opposite direction.

Flicking his heels, he urged the gelding forward toward the south. To his left the rising sun was breasting the blue peaks of the eastern mountains. The sky was blue, birds sang, and the sounds of an awakening city came from behind him. But the sun was rising, Rek knew, on the Nadir. For the Drenai it was dusk on the last day.

Topping a rise, he gazed down on Graven Forest, white and virginal under the winter snow. And yet it was a place of evil legends that normally he would have avoided. The fact that instead he chose to enter showed he knew two things: First, the legends were built around the activities of a living man; second, he knew that man.

Reinard.

He and his band of bloodthirsty cutthroats had their headquarters in Graven and were an open, festering sore in the body of trade. Caravans were sacked, pilgrims were murdered, women were raped. Yet an army could not seek them out, so vast was the forest.

Reinard. Sired by a prince of hell, born to a noblewoman of Ulalia. Or so he told it. Rek had heard that his mother was a Lentrian whore and his father a nameless sailor. He had never repeated this intelligence; he did not, as the phrase went, have the guts for it. Even if he had, he mused, he would not keep them long once he tried it. One of Reinard’s favorite pastimes with prisoners was to roast sections of them over hot coals and serve the meat to those poor unfortunates taken prisoner with them. If he met Reinard, the best thing would be to flatter the hell out of him. And if that did not work, to give him the latest news, send him in the direction of the nearest caravan, and ride swiftly from his domain.

Rek had made sure he knew the details of all the caravans passing through Graven and their probable routes. Silks, jewels, spices, slaves, cattle. In truth he had no wish to part with this information. Nothing would please him better than to ride through Graven quietly, knowing the caravaners’ fate was in the lap of the gods.

The chestnut’s hooves made little sound on the snow, and Rek kept the pace to a gentle walk in case hidden roots should cause the horse to stumble. The cold began to work its way through his warm clothing, and his feet were soon feeling frozen within the doeskin boots. He reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of sheepskin mittens.

The horse plodded on. At noon Rek stopped for a brief, cold meal, hobbling the gelding by a frozen stream. With a thick Vagrian dagger he chipped away the ice, allowing the beast to drink, then gave him a handful of oats. He stroked the long neck, and the chestnut’s head came up sharply, teeth bared. Rek leapt backward, falling into a deep snowdrift. He lay there for a moment, then smiled.

“I knew you didn’t like me,” he said. The horse turned to look at him and snorted.

As he was about to mount, Rek glanced at the horse’s hindquarters. Deep switch scars showed by the tail.

Gently, his hand moved over them. “So,” he said, “someone took a whip to you, eh, Daffodil? Didn’t break your spirit, did they, boy?” He swung into the saddle. With luck, he reckoned, he should be free of the forest in five days.

Gnarled oaks with twisted roots cast ominous dusk shadows across the track, and night breezes set the branches to whispering as Rek walked the gelding deeper into the forest. The moon was rising above the trees, casting a ghostly light on the trail. Teeth chattering, he began to cast about for a good camping site, finding one an hour later in a small hollow by an ice-covered pool. He built a stall in some bushes to keep the worst of the wind from the horse, fed it, and then built a small fire by a fallen oak and a large boulder. Out of the wind, the heat reflected from the stone, Rek brewed tea to help down his dried beef; then he pulled his blanket over his shoulders, leaned against the oak, and watched the flames dance.

A skinny fox poked its snout through a bush, peering at the fire. On impulse, Rek threw it a strip of beef. The animal flicked its eyes from the man to the morsel and back again before darting out to snatch the meat from the frozen ground. Then it vanished into the night. Rek held out his hands to the fire and thought of Horeb.

The burly innkeeper had raised him after Rek’s father had been killed in the northern wars against the Sathuli. Honest, loyal, strong, and dependable—Horeb was all of those. And he was kind, a prince among men.

Rek had managed to repay him one well-remembered night when three Vagrian deserters had attacked him in an alley near the inn.

Luckily Rek had been drinking, and when he had first heard the sound of steel on steel, he had rushed forward. Within the alley Horeb had been fighting a losing battle, his kitchen knife no match for three swordsmen. Yet the old man had been a warrior and had moved well. Rek had been frozen to the spot, his own sword forgotten. He had tried to move forward, but his legs had refused the order. Then a sword had cut through Horeb’s guard, opening a huge wound in his leg.

Rek had screamed, and the sound had released his terror.

The bloody skirmish was over in seconds. Rek took out the first assailant with a throat slash, parried a thrust from the second, and shoulder-charged the third into a wall. From the ground Horeb grabbed the third man, pulling him down and stabbing out with his kitchen knife. The second man fled into the night.