Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (42 page)

“I am ashamed of myself. I told him once that a face was not a man. It was the man I tried to love, but the face keeps coming back to haunt me.”

“You were not wrong. The answer lies in your words: the man you
tried
to love. You took on too much.”

“But he’s so noble and so tragic. He was the Golden One … He had everything.”

“I know. And he was vain.”

“How can you know that?”

“It’s not hard. Consider his story: the rich young patrician who became a Dragon general. But what happened then? He entered himself in the arena games, and there he killed people to thrill the crowds. Many of the men he fought were prisoners, forced to fight and die. They had no choice; he did. But he couldn’t stay away from the applause. There is nothing noble in that. Men! What do they know? They never grow up.”

“You are being very hard on him. He is willing to die for you!”

“Not for me. For himself. He is after revenge.”

“That’s unfair!”

“Life is unfair,” said Rayvan. “Don’t misunderstand me; I like him. I like him a great deal. He is a fine man. But men don’t come in just two groups, one of gold and the other of lead. They are a mix of both.”

“And what about women?” asked Valtaya.

“Pure gold, my girl,” Rayvan answered with a chuckle.

Valtaya smiled.

“That’s better!” said Rayvan.

“How do you do it? How do you stay so strong?”

“I fake it.”

“That can’t be true. You turned the tide today. You were magnificent.”

“That was easy. They killed my husband and my sons, and they have nothing left to make me suffer. My father used to say that you can’t stop a man who knows he is right. At first I thought it was nonsense. An arrow through the gizzard stops anyone. But now I know what he meant. Ceska is unnatural, like a snowstorm in July. He cannot succeed just so long as enough people stand up to oppose him. All over the empire word of the Skoda rebellion will be spreading, and other groups will rise up. Regiments will mutiny; honest men will take up their swords. He cannot win.”

“He can win here.”

“It will be short-lived.”

“Ananais believes that Tenaka Khan will return with a Nadir army.”

“I know,” said Rayvan. “I don’t feel too comfortable about that.”

In the next room Decado lay awake, his wounded shoulder throbbing. He smiled as he heard Rayvan’s words. You can’t fool a woman like her, he thought.

He stared at the wooden ceiling, ignoring the pain from his wound. He was at peace. Katan had come to him, telling him of the boy Ceorl, and Decado had been close to tears. All things were falling into place. Death was no longer a living fear.

Decado eased himself into a sitting position. His armor lay on a table to his right. Serbitar’s armor. The Delnoch Thirty.

Serbitar was said to have been filled with doubts, and Decado hoped that at the end they had been resolved. It was so good to
know
. He wondered how he could have been so blind to the truth when the facts shone before him with such crystal simplicity.

Ananais and Tenaka, drawn together near the Dragon barracks. Scaler and Pagan. Decado and the Thirty. Rayvan.

Every one a link in a web of mystery and magic. And who knew how many other links there were of equal importance?

Valtaya, Renya, Galand, Lake, Parsal, Thorn, Turs?

Pagan had been drawn from a far country to save one special child. But who would the child save?

Webs within webs within webs …

Perhaps the events themselves were merely links. The legendary battle for Dros Delnoch had conspired after two generations to create Tenaka Khan. And Scaler. And the Dragon.

It was all too vast for Decado.

The pain in his shoulder flared once more, and he grunted as it washed over him.

Tomorrow the pain would end.

Three more attacks began with the dawn. On the last the line almost gave way, but Ananais, wielding two swords, hurled himself at the invaders in a berserk charge, cutting and cleaving his way through them. As they were thrown back, a single bugle sounded in the enemy camp and the Joinings assembled, five thousand of them.

The beasts loped forward, and the men of the legion moved back through their ranks, leaving the way clear for the Joinings to advance.

Ananais swallowed hard and gazed to the left and right along the wall. This was the moment of dread. But there was no give in these Skoda men, and he felt a surge of pride.

“There will be a warm fur rug for every man tonight!” he bellowed.

Grim laughter greeted the jest.

The beasts waited as the Dark Templars gathered among them, pulsing visions of blood and carnage, inflaming their bestial natures.

The howling began.

On the wall Decado called Balan to him. The dark-eyed priest approached and bowed formally.

“It is near the time,” said Decado.

“Yes.”

“You will remain behind.”

“What?” said Balan, stunned. “Why?”

“Because they will need you. To link with Tarsk.”

“I don’t want to be alone, Decado!”

“You will not be alone. We will all be with you.”

“No. You are punishing me!”

“It is not so. Stay close to Ananais and protect him as best you can. Also the woman Rayvan.”

“Let someone else stay. I am the worst of you, the weakest. I need you all. You cannot leave me alone.”

“Have faith, Balan. And obey me.”

The priest stumbled back from the ramparts, running headlong into the shadows of the trees beyond.

On the plain the howling grew to a terrible crescendo.

“Now!” cried Decado.

The seventeen warrior priests slid over the ramparts and dropped to the ground below, walking toward the beasts now some hundred paces distant.

“What in thunder?” said Ananais. “Decado!” he bellowed.

The Thirty advanced in a wide line, their white cloaks flapping in the breeze, their swords in their hands.

The beasts charged, the Templars running behind them and spurring them on with mind blasts of fearful power.

The Thirty dropped to their knees.

The leading Joining, a giant beast almost eight feet tall, staggered as the vision hit him. Stone. Cold stone. Shaped.

Blood, fresh blood, dripping from salty meat.

The beast ran on.

Stone. Cold stone. Wings.

Blood.

Stone.

Wings. Shaped wings.

Thirty paces separated the beasts from the Thirty. Ananais could watch no longer and turned his back on the scene.

The Joining leader bore down on the silver-garbed warriors kneeling before it.

Stone. Shaped stone. Wings. Marching men. Stone …

The beast screamed.

Dragon. Stone Dragon. MY DRAGON!

All along the line the Joinings slowed. The howling faded. The image grew in strength. Long-lost memories struggled to surface. Pain, terrible pain burned in the awesome bodies.

The Templars pushed hard, sending searing mind bolts at the beasts. One Joining turned and lashed out, his talons ripping a Templar’s head from his shoulders.

The massive Joining leading the others halted before Decado, its great head hanging down, its tongue lolling. Decado looked up. Holding the image in the beast’s mind, he saw the sorrow in its eyes. It
knew
. Its taloned arm came up and tapped its chest. The long tongue rolled around a single word that Decado could only just make out:

“Baris. Me Baris!”

The beast turned and ran back screaming toward the Templars. Other Joinings followed it, and the Templars stood rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend what was happening. And then the beasts were upon them. But not all the Joinings were former Dragon, and scores of them milled in confusion until one focused on the silver-garbed warriors.

It ran forward, followed by a dozen of its fellows.

In their trance state the Thirty were defenseless. Only Decado had the power to move … And he did not. The Joinings fell upon them, snarling and lashing out.

Decado closed his eyes, and his pain ended.

The Templars fell in their hundreds as the beasts rampaged through the camp. The giant Joining that had been Baris, the lord of the Dragon, leapt upon Maymon as he tried to run. With one bite he tore the man’s arm from his shoulder. Maymon screamed, but a lashing blow from a taloned paw tore away his face, drowning the scream in blood.

Baris lunged to his feet and ran at the tent of Ceska.

Darik hurled a spear that took him in the chest, but it did not penetrate deeply, and the Joining pulled the weapon clear and charged on.

“Legion, to me!” yelled Darik. Archers peppered the beast with arrows, but still it came on.

All over the field Joinings were collapsing, screaming in their death throes.

Still Baris pushed on. Darik watched in amazement as the giant Joining seemed to shrink before his eyes. An arrow pierced the beast’s chest, and it stumbled, then Darik ran forward to plunge his sword into the Joining’s back. It tried to roll over … And died. Darik turned it with his foot. The beast quivered, and he stabbed once more. Then he noticed that the movement had nothing to do with life; it was reverting to human form. He turned away.

All over the plain the beasts were dying, all but the small group ripping at the silver-garbed warriors who had brought this chaos upon them.

Ceska sat within his tent. Darik entered and bowed.

“The beasts are dead, sire.”

“I can make more,” said Ceska. “Take the wall!”

Scaler gazed down at the dead Templar. Two Sathuli warriors ran ahead to catch the dead man’s horse, while Magir ripped the arrow from the man’s throat and stuffed a cloth into the wound, staunching the blood.

Hastily they unbuckled the man’s black breastplate, pulling it clear. Scaler wiped spots of blood from the straps. Two warriors carried on stripping the Templar as Scaler opened the leather pouch hidden inside the breastplate. Within it was a scroll, sealed with the sign of the Wolf. Scaler pushed it back into the pouch.

“Hide the body,” he said, and ran back into the haven of the trees.

For three days they had waited for a messenger on the lonely road through Skultik. Magir had downed him with a single arrow; it was fine marksmanship.

Back at the camp Scaler examined the seal. The wax was green and marbled; there was nothing like it among the Sathuli. He toyed with the idea of opening it, then thrust it back in the pouch.

Sathuli outriders had brought news of Tenaka Khan. He was less than a day from the fortress, and Scaler’s plan had to be put into effect immediately.

Moving to the armor, Scaler tried on the breastplate. It was a little large. Removing it, he pierced the leather strap with his dagger point, tightening the buckle. Better.

The helm was a good fit, but Scaler would have been happier had the man not been a Templar. It was said they could communicate mind to mind. He hoped there were no Templars at Delnoch.

“When do you go in?” asked Magir.

“Tonight. After midnight.”

“Why so late?”

“With luck the commander will be sleeping. He will be drowsy and less inclined to question me.”

“This is a great risk, Lord Earl.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I wish we could have descended on the fortress with ten thousand tulwars.”

“Yes,” Scaler agreed uneasily. “That would have been nice. Still, never mind!”

“You are a strange man, my lord. Always the jest.”

“Life is sad enough, Magir. Laughter is a thing to be treasured.”

“Like friendship,” said the Sathuli.

“Indeed.”

“Was it hard being dead?”

“Not as hard as it is to be alive without hope.”

Magir nodded solemnly. “I hope this venture is not in vain.”

“Why should it be?”

“I do not trust the Nadir.”

“You are a suspicious man, Magir. I trust Tenaka Khan. When I was a child, he saved my life.”

“Then he, too, is reborn?”

“No.”

“I do not understand.”

“I did not rise full-grown from the grave, Magir. I grew like any other child.”

“There is much I do not understand. But we shall leave it for another day. Now it is time to prepare.”

Scaler nodded, amazed at his own stupidity. How easily could a man betray himself.

Magir watched Scaler don the black armor, and he wondered. He was not a stupid man, and he sensed the unease in the earl, knowing in that moment that all was not as he had believed. And yet the spirit of Joachim had trusted him.

It was enough.

Scaler tightened the saddle cinch on the black gelding and swung to the saddle, hooking the helm over the pommel.

“Farewell, my friend,” he said.

“May the god of fortune rest with you,” answered Magir.

Scaler heeled the gelding away through the trees. He rode for over an hour, until at last the southern gates of Delnoch appeared before him, the great wall spanning the pass. It was so long since he had been home.

Two sentries saluted as he rode under the portcullis gate, turning left to the doors of the keep. A soldier came forward and took the reins as he dismounted.

Scaler marched forward, and another sentry approached.

“Take me to the gan,” ordered Scaler.

“Gan Paldin is asleep, sir.”

“Then wake him!” snapped Scaler, keeping his voice bleak and cold.

“Yes, sir. Follow me, sir,” said the man.

He led Scaler down the long torchlit corridor, through the Hall of Heroes lined with statues, and on up the marble staircase to Paldin’s quarters. Once they had belonged to Scaler’s grandfather. The sentry rapped on the door several times before a sleepy voice answered; the door swung open. Gan Paldin had pulled on a woolen robe. He was a short man of middle years with large protruding dark eyes. Scaler disliked him instantly.

“Could this not have waited?” Paldin asked testily.

Scaler handed over the scroll, and Paldin ripped it open and read it swiftly.

“Well,” he said, “is that it? Or is there a personal message?”

“I have another message, my lord. From the emperor himself. He is expecting aid from the north, and you are to allow the Nadir general through the gates. You understand?”