Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (31 page)

“It doesn’t matter. Why should you think well of me?”

“Because you are a man and you act like one,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To apologize, you dolt! You struck me.”

He pulled her to him, lifting her from her feet, and kissed her.

“That wasn’t an apology,” she said. “And you scratched my face with your stubble.”

“If I apologize, will you let me do it again?”

“Strike me, you mean?”

“No, kiss you!”

Back at the hollow the Thirty formed a circle around the fire, removing their swords and plunging them into the ground at their feet.

The communion began, their minds flowing, streaming into Vintar. He welcomed each by name in the halls of his subconscious.

And merged. The combined power rocked him, and he struggled to retain the memory of himself. He soared like a ghostly giant, a new being of incredible power. The tiny thing that was Vintar clung on inside the new colossus, forcing down the combined essence of twenty-nine personalities.

Now there was only one.

It called itself Temple and was born under the Delnoch stars.

Temple reared high under the clouds, stretching ethereal arms across the Delnoch crags.

He soared exultantly, new eyes drinking in the sights of the universe. Laughter welled within him. Vintar reeled at the center, driving himself deeper into the core.

At last Temple became aware of the abbot, more as a tiny thought niggling at the edge of his new reality.

“Dros Delnoch. West.”

Temple flew west, high over the crags. Beneath him the fortress lay silent, gray, and ghostly in the moonlight. He sank toward it and sensed the barrier.

Barrier?

To him?

He struck at it—and was hurled into the night, angry and hurt. His eyes blazed, and he knew fury: The barrier had touched him with pain.

Again and again Temple launched himself toward the Dros, striking blows of fearful power. The barrier trembled and changed.

Temple drew back, confused, watching.

The barrier drew in on itself like swirling mist, reforming. Then it darkened into a thick plume, blacker than the night. Arms emerged, legs formed, and a horned head grew with seven slanted red eyes.

Temple had learned much during his few minutes of life.

Joy, freedom, and knowledge of life had come first. Then pain and fury.

Now he knew fear and gained the knowledge of evil.

His enemy flew at him, curving black talons slashing the sky. Temple met him head on, curling his arms around its back. Sharp teeth tore at his face, talons ripping his shoulders. His own huge fists locked together at the creature’s spine, drawing it in upon itself.

Below on Musif, Wall Two, three thousand men took up their positions. Despite all arguments, Druss had refused to surrender Wall One without a fight and waited there with six thousand men. Orrin had raged at him that such action was stupidity; the width of the wall made for an impossible task. Druss was obstinate even when Hogun backed Orrin.

“Trust me,” Druss urged them. But he lacked the words to convince them. He tried to explain that the men needed a small victory on the first day in order to hone that final edge to their morale.

“But the risk, Druss!” said Orrin. “We could
lose
on the first day. Can’t you see that?”

“You are the gan,” snarled Druss then. “You can overrule me if you wish.”

“But I will not, Druss. I will stand beside you on Eldibar.”

“And I,” said Hogun.

“You will see that I am right,” said Druss. “I promise you.”

Both men nodded, smiling to mask their despair.

Now the duty culs were queuing by the wells, gathering the water buckets and making their way along the battlements, stepping over the legs and bodies of men still sleeping.

On Wall One Druss dipped a copper dish into a bucket and drank deeply. He was not sure that the Nadir would attack that day. His instincts told him Ulric would allow another full day of murderous tension, the sight of his army preparing for battle draining the defenders of courage and sapping them of hope. Even so Druss had little choice. The move was Ulric’s: The Drenai would have to wait.

Above them Temple suffered the fury of the beast, his shoulders and back shredded, his strength fading. The horned creature was also weakening. Death faced them both.

Temple did not want to die, not after such a short bittersweet taste of life. He wanted to see at close hand all those things he had glimpsed from afar, the colored lights of expanding stars, the silence at the center of distant suns.

His grip tightened. There would be no joy in the lights, no thrill amid the silence if this thing was left alive behind him. Suddenly the creature screamed, a high terrible sound, eerie and chilling. Its back snapped, and it faded like mist.

Semiconscious within Temple’s soul, Vintar cried out.

Temple looked down, watching the men, tiny frail creatures, preparing to break their fast with dark bread and water. Vintar cried out again, and Temple’s brow furrowed.

He pointed his finger at the wall.

Men began to scream, hurling water cups and buckets from the Musif battlements. In each vessel black worms wriggled and swam. Now more men surged to their feet, milling and shouting.

“What the devil’s happening up there?” said Druss as the noise flowed down to him. He glanced down at the Nadir and saw that men were streaming back from the siege engines toward the tent city. “I don’t know what’s going on,” said Druss. “But even the Nadir are leaving. I’m going back to Musif.”

In the city of tents Ulric was no less angry as he shouldered his way through to the wide tent of Nosta Khan. His mind was icy calm as he confronted the sentry outside.

The news was spreading through the army like a steppe gorse fire: As dawn had broken, the tents of Nosta Khan’s sixty acolytes had been filled with soul-searing screams. Guards had rushed in to find men writhing broken-backed on the dirt floors, their bodies bent like overstrung bows.

Ulric knew that Nosta Khan had marshaled his followers, drawing on their combined power to thwart the white templars, but he had never truly understood the appalling dangers.

“Well?” he asked the sentry.

“Nosta Khan is alive,” the man told him.

Ulric lifted the flap and stepped into the stench of Nosta Khan’s home. The old man lay on a narrow pallet bed, his face gray with exhaustion, his skin bathed in sweat. Ulric pulled up a stool and sat beside him.

“My acolytes?” whispered Nosta Khan.

“All dead.”

“They were too strong, Ulric,” said the old man. “I have failed you.”

“Men have failed me before,” said Ulric. “It matters not.”

“It matters to me!” shouted the shaman, wincing as the effort stretched his back.

“Pride,” said Ulric. “You have lost nothing; you have merely been beaten by a stronger enemy. It will avail them little, for my army will still take the Dros. They cannot hold. Rest yourself—and take no risks, shaman. I order it!”

“I will obey.”

“I know that. I do not wish you to die. Will they come for you?”

“No. The white templars are filled with notions of honor. If I rest, they will leave me be.”

“Then rest. And when you are strong, we will make them pay for your hurt.”

Nosta Khan grinned. “Aye.”

Far to the south Temple soared toward the stars. Vintar could not stop him and fought to stay calm as Temple’s panic washed over him, seeking to dislodge him. With the death of the enemy, Vintar had tried to summon the Thirty from within the new mind of the colossus. In that moment Temple looked inside himself and discovered Vintar.

Vintar had tried to explain his presence and the need for Temple to relinquish his individuality. Temple absorbed the truth and fled from it like a comet, seeking the heavens.

The abbot again tried to summon Serbitar, seeking the niche in which he had placed him in the halls of his subconscious. The spark of life that was the albino blossomed under the abbot’s probing, and Temple shuddered, feeling as if part of himself had been cut free. He slowed in his flight.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked Vintar.

“Because I must.”

“I will die!”

“No. You will live in all of us.”

“Why must you kill me?”

“I am truly sorry,” said Vintar gently. With Serbitar’s aid he sought Arbedark and Menahem. Temple shrank, and Vintar closed his heart with grief to the overwhelming despair. The four warriors summoned the other members of the Thirty and with heavy hearts returned to the hollows.

Rek hurried across to Vintar as the abbot opened his eyes and moved.

“Were you in time?” he asked.

“Yes,” muttered Vintar wearily. “Let me rest now.”

It was an hour short of dusk when Rek, Virae, and the Thirty rode under the great portcullis gate set beneath the Delnoch keep. Their horses were weary, lather-covered, and wet-flanked. Men rushed to greet Virae, soldiers doffing helms and citizens asking for news from Drenan. Rek stayed in the background until they were inside the keep. A young officer escorted the Thirty to the barracks while Rek and Virae made their way to the topmost rooms. Rek was exhausted.

Stripping off his clothes, he bathed himself with cold water and then shaved, removing the four-day stubble and cursing as the keen razor—a gift from Horeb—nicked his skin. He shook most of the dust from his garments and dressed once more. Virae had gone to her own rooms, and he had no idea where they were. Strapping on his sword belt, he made his way back to the main hall, stopping twice to ask servants the way. Once there, he sat alone, gazing at the marble statues of ancient heroes. He felt lost: insignificant and overpowered.

As soon as they had arrived, they had heard the news that the Nadir horde was before the walls. There was a tangible air of panic among the townsfolk, and they had seen refugees leaving by the score with carts piled high, a long, sorrowful convoy heading south.

Rek was unsure whether tiredness or hunger was predominant in him at that moment. He heaved himself to his feet, swayed slightly, then cursed loudly. Near the door was a full-length oval mirror. As he stood before it, the man who stared back at him appeared tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful. His gray-blue eyes were purposeful, his chin strong, his body lean. The blue cape, though travel-worn, still hung well, and the thigh-length doeskin boots gave him the look of a cavalry officer.

As Rek gazed at the Earl of Dros Delnoch, he saw himself as others would see him. They were not to know of his inner doubts and would see only the image he had created.

So be it.

He left the hall and stopped the first soldier he met to ask him where Druss was to be found. Wall One, the soldier said, and described the location of the postern gates. The tall young earl set out for Eldibar as the sun sank; going through the town, he stopped to buy a small loaf of honey cake, which he ate as he walked. It was growing darker as he reached the postern gate of Wall Two, but a sentry showed him the way through and at last he entered the killing ground behind Wall One. Clouds obscured the moon, and he almost fell into the fire pit that stretched across the pass. A young soldier hailed him and showed him the first wooden bridge across it.

“One of Bowman’s archers, are you?” asked the soldier, not recognizing the tall stranger.

“No. Where is Druss?”

“I have no idea. He could be on the battlements, or you might try the mess hall. Messenger, are you?”

“No. Which is the mess hall?”

“See the lights over there? That’s the hospital. Past there is the storeroom; keep walking until you hit the smell of the latrines, then turn right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble. Recruit, are you?”

“Yes,” said Rek. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’d better come with you.”

“There is no need.”

“Yes, there is,” said the man, and Rek felt something sharp in the small of his back. “This is a Ventrian dagger, and I suggest you just walk along with me for a short way.”

“What’s the point of all this?”

“First, someone tried to kill Druss the other day, and second, I don’t know you,” said the man. “So walk on and we will find him together.”

The two men moved on toward the mess hall. Now that they were closer, they could hear the sounds from the buildings ahead. A sentry hailed them from the battlements; the soldier answered, then asked for Druss.

“He’s on the wall near the gate tower,” came the answer.

“This way,” said the soldier, and Rek climbed the short steps to the battlement walls. Then he stopped dead. On the plain thousands of torches and small fires illuminated the Nadir army. Siege towers straddled the pass like wooden giants from mountain wall to mountain wall. The whole valley was lit as far as the eye could see; it was like a view of the second level of hell itself.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” said the soldier.

“I don’t think it will look any better by daylight,” said Rek.

“You are not wrong,” agreed the other. “Let’s move.”

Ahead of them Druss was seated on the battlements, talking to a small group of soldiers. He was telling a wonderfully embroidered tall story that Rek had heard before. The punch line evoked the desired effect, and the night silence was broken by the sound of laughter.

Druss laughed heartily with the men, then noticed the newcomers. He turned and studied the tall man in the blue cape.

“Well?” he asked the soldier.

“He was looking for you, Captain, so I brought him along.”

“To be more precise,” said Rek, “he thought I might be an assassin. Hence the dagger behind me.”

Druss raised an eyebrow. “Well, are you an assassin?”

“Not recently. Can we talk?”

“We appear to be doing just that.”

“Privately.”

“You start talking and I will decide how private it is to be,” said Druss.

“My name is Regnak. I have just arrived with warriors from the temple of the Thirty and Virae, the daughter of Delnar.”

“We will talk privately,” decided Druss. The men wandered away out of earshot.