Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (39 page)

And he had learned to run again, savoring the joy of the wind in his face, to climb and wrestle, to laugh and live.

And he had learned to speak without speaking, move without moving, and see without seeing.

Through all these blissful years Serbitar’s rose had blossomed and grown.

A white rose …

And now it had all come to this! One glimpse into the future had destroyed thirteen years of training and belief. One speeding shaft, viewed through the mists of time, had changed his destiny.

Serbitar had stared horror-struck at the scene below him on the battle-scarred walls of the Dros. His mind had recoiled from the violence he saw there, and he had fled, comet-swift, to a far corner of a distant universe, losing himself and his sanity among exploding stars and new suns’ birthing.

And still Vintar had found him.

“You must return.”

“I cannot. I have seen.”

“As have I.”

“Then you know that I would rather die than see it again.”

“But you must, for it is your destiny.”

“Then I refuse my destiny.”

“And your friends? Do you refuse them also?”

“I cannot watch you die again, Vintar.”

“Why not? I myself have seen the scene a hundred times. I have even written a poem about it.”

“As we are now—shall we be again, after death? Free souls?”

“I do not know, but I would have it so. Now return to your duty. I have pulsed the Thirty. They will keep your body alive for as long as they can.”

“They always have. Why should I be the last to die?”

“Because we would have it so. We love you, Serbitar. And always have. A shy child you were, who had never tasted friendship. Suspicious you were of the slightest touch or embrace—a soul crying alone in a cosmic wilderness. Even now you are alone.”

“But I love you all.”

“Because you need our love.”

“Not so, Vintar!”

“Do you love Rek and Virae?”

“They are not of the Thirty.”

“Neither were you until we made it so.”

And Serbitar had returned to the fortress and felt ashamed. But the shame he had felt earlier was as nothing compared with the feeling he now experienced.

Was it but an hour since that he had walked the ramparts with Vintar, and complained of many things, and confessed to many sins?

“You are wrong, Serbitar. So wrong. I also feel blood lust in battle. Who does not? Ask Arbedark or Menahem. While we are still men, we will feel as other men do.”

“Then is it for nothing that we are priests?” cried Serbitar. “We have spent years of our lives studying the insanity of war, of man’s lust for power, his need for bloodshed. We raise ourselves above the common man with powers that are almost godlike. Yet in the final analysis we come to this, lusting after battle and death. It
is
for nothing!”

“Your conceit is colossal, Serbitar,” said Vintar, an edge to his voice and the suggestion of anger showing in his eyes. “You speak of ‘godlike.’ You speak of the ‘common man.’ Where in your words is the humility we strive for?

“When you first came to the temple, you were weak and lonely and several years the youngest. But you learned the more swiftly. And you were chosen as the voice. Did you only acquire the disciplines and forgo the philosophy?”

“It would appear so,” answered Serbitar.

“You are wrong again. For in wisdom there is suffering. You are pained not because you disbelieve but because you believe. Let us return to basics. Why do we travel to a distant war?”

“To die.”

“Why do we choose this method? Why not simply allow ourselves to starve?”

“Because in war a man’s will to live is strongest. He will fight hard to stay alive. He will learn again to love life.”

“And what will that force
us
to face?”

“Our doubts,” whispered Serbitar.

“But you never thought that such doubt would come to you, so sure were you of your godlike powers?”

“Yes, I was sure. Now I am not. Is this such a great sin?”

“You know it is not. Why am I alive, my boy? Why did I not die with Magnar’s Thirty two decades ago?”

“You were the one chosen to found the new temple.”

“Why was I chosen?”

“You were the most perfect. It has to be so.”

“Then why was I not the leader?”

“I do not understand you.”

“How is the leader chosen?”

“I know not. You have never said.”

“Then guess, Serbitar.”

“Because he is the best choice. The most …”

“Perfect?”

“I would have said so, but I see where you are leading. If you were the most perfect, why did Magnar lead? Well, why did he?”

“You have seen the future; you should have seen and heard this conversation. You tell me.”

“You know that I did not,” said Serbitar. “There was no time for study of the minutiae.”

“Oh, Serbitar, still you will not understand! What you saw and chose to examine
was
the minutiae, the meaningless and the trivial. What does it mean to the history of this planet that this Dros falls? How many other castles have fallen throughout the ages? Of what cosmic importance was their failure? How vital are our deaths?”

“Tell me then, my lord abbot, how is the leader chosen?”

“Have you not guessed it, my son?”

“I believe so,”

“Then speak.”

“He is the least perfect of the acolytes,” said Serbitar softly, his green eyes searching Vintar’s face and begging denial.

“He is the least perfect,” echoed Vintar sadly.

“But why?” asked Serbitar.

“So that his task will be the more difficult, the more demanding. To give him the chance to rise and match the position he holds.”

“And I have failed?”

“Not yet, Serbitar. Not yet.”

24

D
ay by day
more people left the siege city, piling their possessions onto carts, wagons, or the backs of mules and forming convoys that snaked their way inland toward the relative security of the Skoda mountains and the capital beyond.

With each departure fresh problems faced the defenders. Fighting men had to be seconded to other duties, such as latrine clearance, stores supply, and food preparation. Now the drain on resources came on two fronts.

Druss was furious and insisted that the gates be closed, the evacuation stopped. Rek pointed out that even more soldiers would then be needed to police the south road.

Then the first disaster of the campaign struck the defenders.

On the high day of summer—ten weeks after the battle began—Musif fell and chaos reigned. The Nadir breached the wall at the center, driving a wedge into the killing ground beyond. The men, threatened with encirclement, fell back and raced for the fire gullies. Running skirmishes began as discipline fled, and two gully bridges collapsed as warriors milled upon them.

On Kania, Wall Three, Rek waited as long as he dared before ordering the gullies lit with flame arrows. Druss, Orrin, and Hogun scrambled to safety just as the blaze took. But beyond the gully more than eight hundred Drenai warriors battled on hopelessly in tight shield rings that grew smaller moment by moment. Many on Kania turned away, unable to bear the sight of their friends’ futile battles. Rek stood with fists clenched and watched in despair. The fighting did not last long. Hopelessly outnumbered, the Drenai were engulfed, and the battle song of victory was sung by thousands of tribesmen.

They gathered before the flames chanting, waving blood-stained swords and axes in the air. Few on the walls understood the words, but understanding was unnecessary. The message was primal, the meaning clear. It struck the heart and soul with blistering clarity.

“What do they sing?” Rek asked Druss as the old man recovered his breath following the long rope climb to the ramparts.

“It’s their glory chant:

Nadir we,

Youth-born,

bloodletters

ax wielders,

victors still.”

Beyond the fire tribesmen burst into the field hospital, slaying men in their beds and dragging others out into the sunlight, where they could be seen by their comrades on the wall. Then they were peppered with arrows or slowly dismembered. One was even nailed to the window shutters of the barracks, to hang screaming for two hours before being disemboweled and beheaded.

The Drenai dead, stripped of their weapons and armor, were hurled into the fire gullies, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air and stung the eyes.

The evacuation at the south gates became a flood as the city emptied. Soldiers joined in, discarding their weapons and mingling with the crowds. No effort was made to stop them, on Rek’s direct order.

In a little house near the Street of Millers Maerie tried to comfort the small child sobbing in her arms. The noise in the street outside frightened her as families loaded their possessions onto carts and wagons tethered with oxen or milk cows. It was pandemonium.

Maerie cuddled the child, crooning a lullaby tune and kissing the tight curls on his head.

“I must go back to the wall,” said her husband, a tall young man with dark hair and wide, gentle blue eyes. How tired he looked, hollow-eyed and gaunt.

“Don’t go, Carin,” she said as he strapped his sword belt about his waist.

“Don’t go? I must.”

“Let us leave Delnoch. We have friends in Purdol, and you could find work there.”

He was not an intuitive man, and he missed the note of desperation in her voice, failed to sense the rising panic behind her eyes.

“Don’t let these fools frighten you, Maerie. Druss is still with us, and we will hold Kania. I promise you.”

The sobbing child clutched his mother’s dress, soothed by the gentle strength of his father’s voice. Too young to understand the words yet, he was comforted by the pitch and tone. The noise outside receded from him, and he slept on his mother’s shoulder. But Maerie was older and wiser than the child, and to her the words were just words.

“Listen to me, Carin. I want to leave. Today!”

“I can’t talk now. I must go back. I will see you later. It will be all right.” Leaning forward, he kissed her, then stepped into the chaos of the street.

She looked around her, remembering: the chest by the door, a gift from Carin’s parents. The chairs made by her uncle, Damus, fashioned with care like all his work. They had brought the chairs and chest with them two years before.

Good years?

Carin was kind, thoughtful, loving. There was so much goodness to him. Easing the child into his cot, she wandered to the small bedroom, shutting the window against the noise. Soon the Nadir would come. The door would be smashed in, and filthy tribesmen would come for her, tearing at her clothing …

She shut her eyes.

Druss was still here, he had said.

Stupid Carin! Kind, loving, thoughtful, stupid Carin! Carin the miller.

She had never been truly happy with him, though without this war she might never have realized it. She had been so close to contentment. Then he had joined the defenders, coming home so proudly in that ludicrous breastplate and oversized helm.

Stupid Carin. Kind Carin.

The door opened, and she turned to see her friend Delis, her blond hair covered in a travel shawl and a heavy cloak over her shoulders.

“Are you coming?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Is Carin coming with you?”

“No.”

Swiftly she gathered her belongings, pushing them into a canvas bag issued to Carin. Delis carried the bag to the wagon outside while Maerie lifted her son from his cot, wrapping him in a second blanket. Stooping, she pulled open the small chest, pushing aside the linen and pulling clear the small bag of silver that Carin had hidden there.

She did not bother to close the door.

In the keep Druss raged at Rek, swearing to kill any deserter he recognized.

“It’s too late for that,” said Rek.

“Damn you, boy!” muttered Druss. “We have fewer than three thousand men. How long do you think we will hold if we allow desertions?”

“How long if we don’t?” snapped Rek. “We are finished, anyway! Serbitar says Kania can be held for maybe two days, Sumitos for perhaps three, Valteri the same, and Geddon less. Ten days in all. Ten miserable days!” The young earl leaned on the balcony rail above the gates and watched the convoys start south. “Look at them, Druss! Farmers, bakers, tradesmen. What right have we to ask them to die? What will it matter to them if we fail? The Nadir will not kill every baker in Drenan; it will just mean a change of masters.”