Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (41 page)

“Yes?”

“The enemy has arrived at Tarsk. There is no sign of the Joinings.”

“They are all here!”

“Then we will travel to you. Yes?”

“Yes,” answered Decado. He had kept eight priests with him at Magadon and sent the other nine to Tarsk.

“We did as you suggested and entered the mind of one of the beasts, but I don’t think you will like what we found.”

“Tell me.”

“They are Dragon! Ceska began rounding them up fifteen years ago. Some of the more recent came from among men captured when the Dragon re-formed.”

“I see.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“No,” said Decado. “It only increases the sorrow.”

“I am sorry. Does the plan go ahead?”

“Yes. Are you sure we must be close?”

“I am,” said Acuas. “The closer, the better.”

“The Templars?”

“They have breached the void wall. We almost lost Balan.”

“How is he?”

“Recovering. Have you told Ananais about Tenaka Khan?”

“No.”

“You know best.”

“I hope so. Get here as soon as you can.”

On the grass below Ananais slept dreamlessly. Valtaya saw him there and prepared a meal of roast beef and hot bread. She carried it to him after about an hour, and together they walked into the shade of some trees, where he lifted his mask and ate.

She couldn’t watch him eat and moved away to gather flowers. When he had finished, she returned to him.

“Put on your mask,” she said. “Someone might come by.”

His bright blue eyes burned into hers, then he looked away and pulled on the mask.

“Someone just did,” he said sadly.

22

T
oward the middle
of the morning bugles sounded in the enemy camp, and some ten thousand warriors began to move purposefully around the wagons: pulling ladders clear, tying ropes to grappling hooks, hitching shields in place.

Ananais ran to the wall where Lake was bent over the giant bow, checking the ropes and ties.

The army lined up across the valley, sunlight flashing from swords and spears. A drumbeat began, and the force moved forward.

On the wall defenders licked dry lips with dry tongues and wiped sweating palms on their tunics.

The slow drumbeat echoed in the mountains.

Terror hit the defenders like a tidal wave. Men screamed and jumped from the wall, rolling onto the grass below.

“The Templars!” screamed Decado. “It’s only an illusion.”

But panic continued to well up in the Skoda ranks. Ananais tried to rally them, but his own voice was shaking with fear. More men leapt from the walls as the drums grew closer.

Hundreds of men now streamed back, skidding to a halt as they saw the woman standing before them in her rusty mail shirt.

“We don’t run!” bellowed Rayvan. “We are Skoda! We are the sons of Druss the Legend.
We don’t run!
”

Drawing a short sword, she walked through them toward the walls. Only a handful of men remained by the ramparts, and they were ghost-faced and trembling. Rayvan mounted the steps, fear growing as she reached the battlements.

Ananais staggered toward her, holding out his hand, which she accepted gratefully.

“They can’t beat us!” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes wide.

The Skoda men turned and saw her standing defiantly at the center. Gathering their swords, they moved forward again, pushing against the wall of fear before them.

Decado and the Thirty fought back against the force, holding a shield around Rayvan.

And then the fear vanished!

The Skoda warriors surged back to the walls, angry now. Shamed by the courage of the warrior woman who led them, they stood their ground, determination on every face.

The drumbeat stopped. A bugle sounded.

With a savage roar ten thousand warriors surged forward.

Lake and his workers hauled back the bowstrings on the two weapons, filling their bowls with filed lead shot. At fifty paces Lake lifted his arm. At forty he dropped it and tugged the release. The arm whipped forward. The second machine let fly a moment later.

The first ranks of the enemy were scythed down, and a great cheer rose from the defenders. Taking up their bows, the Skoda men sent volley after volley of arrows into the charging warriors. But they were heavily armored and held their shields before them.

Ladders thudded against the wall, and grappling hooks sailed over the ramparts.

“Now it begins!” said Ananais.

The first warrior to reach the ramparts died with Ananais’ sword in his throat. As he fell, he dislodged the man below him.

And then they were over, and the battle became hand to hand.

Decado and the Thirty fought together as a unit to the right of Ananais. Not one warrior gained the ramparts there.

But to the left the invaders forged an opening. Ananais charged among them, cutting and slashing, hacking and slaying. Like a lion among wolves he hammered his way through their ranks, and the Skoda men gathered behind him, roaring their defiance. Slowly they pushed back the soldiers. At the center Rayvan plunged her blade into a warrior’s chest, but as he fell, he lashed out, his sword slicing her cheek. She stumbled as another man ran at her, and Lake, seeing his mother’s danger, hurled his dagger to hit the assailant, hilt first, behind the ear. He half fell and dropped his sword, whereupon Rayvan finished him with a two-handed cut to the neck.

“Get away from here, Mother!” yelled Lake.

Decado, hearing the cry, left the Thirty and ran to Rayvan, helping her to her feet.

“Lake is right,” he said. “You are far too important to risk yourself here!”

“Behind you!” she yelled as a warrior leapt over the wall with ax raised. Decado spun on his heel and lunged. His sword skewered the man’s chest and snapped. Two more warriors climbed into view, and Decado dived forward, scooping up the fallen ax and rolling to his feet. He blocked an overhead cut, then backhanded the warrior from the wall. The second man lanced his blade into Decado’s shoulder, but Lake, running in behind, hammered his sword through the attacker’s skull.

The attackers drew back.

“Get the wounded from the wall,” shouted Ananais. “They’ll return at any moment.”

Ananais moved along the wall, hastily checking the wounded and dead. At least a hundred men would fight no more. Ten more attacks like this and they were finished.

Galand made his way from the far left, meeting Ananais at the center.

“We could do with a thousand more men and a higher wall,” Galand said sourly.

“They did well. Losses will be fewer next time. The weakest of our men fell during this assault.”

“Is that all they are to you?” snapped Galand. “Units with swords. Some good, some bad?”

“There is no time for this, Galand.”

“You make me sick!”

“I know Parsal’s death—”

“Leave me alone!” said Galand, pushing past him.

“What was that about?” asked Thorn, climbing the rampart steps. A bandage had been wrapped around a shallow cut on his head.

“I don’t know.”

“I brought some food,” said Thorn, handing Ananais a loaf filled with creamed cheese. Ananais had taken one bite when the drums began beating once more.

* * *

Five attacks were launched and repulsed before dusk, and one night attack was turned back with heavy losses among the Drenai.

Ananais remained on the wall until two hours before dawn, but Decado assured him that no further attacks were planned, and the general finally staggered away from the ramparts. Valtaya had a room in the hospital, but he resisted the impulse to go to her; instead he moved into the trees and fell asleep on a grassy knoll.

Four hundred men had been removed from the battle; the wounded overflowed the hospital and had been laid on blankets on the grass around the building. Ananais had sent for reinforcements, 250 men of the reserve force.

At Tarsk, he learned from Acuas, the losses had been fewer, but then, only three attacks had been launched. Turs, the young warrior who led the Tarsk troops, had done well by all accounts.

It was now obvious that the main thrust would be aimed at Magadon. Ananais hoped the Joinings would not be sent in the next day, but in his heart he knew that they would be.

Across from the hospital buildings a young warrior tossed in his sleep as the nightmare grew. Suddenly he stiffened, and a strangled scream died in his throat. His eyes opened, and he sat up, reaching for his knife. Reversing the blade, he slowly pushed it into his chest between the ribs until it sliced into his heart. Then he withdrew it and stood up. No blood ran from the wound …

Slowly he walked to the hospital building, staring through the open window. Inside, Valtaya was working into the night, fighting to save the worst of the wounded.

He moved away from the window to the woods beyond, where some two hundred refugees had pitched their makeshift tents. By a camp fire sat Rayvan, cradling a babe and talking to three women.

The dead man walked toward them.

Rayvan looked up and saw him. She knew him well.

“Can you not sleep, Oranda?”

He did not reply.

Then Rayvan saw the knife, and her eyes narrowed. When the man knelt beside her, she looked into his eyes. Blank and dead, they stared back unseeing.

The knife flashed up, and Rayvan twisted and dived, turning her body to protect the sleeping babe as the blade raked her hip. Letting the child roll clear, she blocked the next blow with her forearm and smashed a right cross to the man’s chin. He fell but rose again. Rayvan pushed herself to her feet. The other women were screaming now, and the babe had begun to wail. As the corpse approached, Rayvan backed away; she could feel the blood oozing down her leg. Then a man ran forward, holding a blacksmith’s hammer, which he brought down savagely on the dead man’s head. The skull cracked, but still no expression crossed his face.

An arrow flashed into the dead man’s chest; he merely gazed down at it and then slowly pulled it clear. Galand ran forward just as the corpse reached Rayvan. As the knife came up, Galand lashed out, and the knife arm sailed from the body. The corpse staggered … and fell.

“They want you dead pretty badly,” said Galand.

“They want us all dead,” replied Rayvan.

“Tomorrow they will get their wish,” he observed.

Valtaya finished stitching the nine-inch cut on Rayvan’s hip and then smeared a thick ointment along the wound.

“It will help prevent an ugly scar,” said Valtaya, covering the wound with gauze.

“A matter of indifference to me,” said Rayvan. “When you get to my age, no one is going to notice a scar on the hip, if you take my meaning.”

“Nonsense; you are a handsome woman.”

“Exactly. It is a rare man who notices a handsome woman. You are Darkmask’s lover, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Known him long?”

“No, not long. He saved my life.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“You are a nice girl, but maybe you take debts too seriously.”

Valtaya sat down beside the bed, rubbing her eyes. She was tired, too tired for sleep.

“Do you always make snap judgments of people you meet?”

“No,” said Rayvan, sitting up carefully and feeling the pull of the stitches. “But love is in the eyes, and one woman knows when another woman is in love. When I asked you about Darkmask, you showed your sadness. And then you said he had saved your life. It was not difficult to reach the obvious conclusion.”

“Is it so wrong to want to repay someone?”

“No, it isn’t wrong—especially now. Anyway, he is a fine man.”

“I have hurt him,” said Valtaya. “I didn’t mean to; I was tired. Most times I try to ignore his face, but I told him to put on his mask.”

“Lake caught a glimpse of him once without his mask. He told me Ananais’ face was hideously scarred.”

“There is no face,” said Valtaya. “The nose and upper lip have been ripped away, and the cheeks are a mass of scar tissue. One scar will not heal and oozes pus. It is a horror! He looks like a dead man. I have tried … I can’t …” Tears fell, and the words died.

“Don’t think badly of yourself, my girl,” said Rayvan softly, leaning forward and patting her back. “You
tried
. Most women would not even have done that.”