Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (14 page)

“An interesting addendum to your saga,” said Bowman. Druss chuckled. “I must be getting melancholy in my old age. I don’t usually prattle on about the past.”

“What happened to Sieben?” asked the outlaw.

“He died at Skeln.”

“You were close?”

“We were like brothers.”

“I can’t think why I remind you of him,” said Bowman.

“Maybe it is because you both hide a dark secret,” said Druss.

“Perhaps,” admitted the outlaw. “However, make your offer.”

“A pardon for every man and five gold Raq a head.”

“Not enough.”

“It’s my best offer, I’ll go no further.”

“Your offer must be this: A pardon, five gold Raq a head for all 620 men, and an agreement that when Wall Three falls, we leave with our money and our pardons stamped with the earl’s seal.”

“Why Wall Three?”

“Because that will be the beginning of the end.”

“Something of a strategist, are you, boy?”

“You could say that. By the way, how do you feel about women warriors?”

“I have known a few. Why do you ask?”

“I shall be bringing one.”

“So? What difference does it make as long as she can aim a bow?”

“I didn’t say it made a difference. I just thought I ought to mention it.”

“Is there something about this woman that I should know?” asked Druss.

“Only that she’s a killer,” said Bowman.

“Then she’s perfect, and I will welcome her with open arms.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Bowman softly.

“Be at Delnoch in fourteen days and I’ll welcome you all with open arms.”

Rek awoke to see the new sun breasting the distant mountains. His body adjusted swiftly from dreamless sleep, and he stretched and slid from the covers, then walked to the tower window of the bedroom. In the courtyard below the Thirty were assembling their mounts, great beasts with short-cropped manes and braided tails. Apart from the sound of steel hooves on cobbles, an eerie silence hung over the scene. None of the men spoke. Rek shivered.

Virae moaned in her sleep, her arm stretching across the wide bed.

Rek watched the men below check their armor and tighten saddle girths. Strange, he thought. Where are the jokes, the laughter, all the sounds soldiers usually make as they prepare for war? Jests to ease the fear, curses to ease the tension?

Serbitar appeared, a white cloak over his silver armor, his braided white hair covered by a silver helm. The Thirty saluted him. Rek shook his head. It was uncanny. Identical timing: like the same salute in thirty mirrors.

Virae opened her eyes and yawned. She rolled over and saw Rek’s back silhouetted against the morning sun. She smiled.

“Your belly is receding into memory,” she said.

“Mock not,” he said, smiling. “Unless you are going to appear in front of thirty warriors in your skin, you need to hurry. They are already in the courtyard.”

“It’s one way to find out if they’re human,” she said, sitting up. Rek tore his eyes from her body.

“You have the strangest effect on me,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “You always make me think of lovemaking at the wrong times. Now get dressed.”

In the courtyard Serbitar led the men in prayer, a silent joining of minds. Vintar watched the young albino fondly, pleased with his swift adjustment to the responsibility of leadership.

Serbitar ended the prayer and returned to the tower. He was uneasy, out of harmony. He mounted the circular stone steps to the tower bedroom, smiling as he remembered his promise to the tall Drenai and his woman. It would have been so much easier to speak than to mount these stairs to check if they were ready.

He knocked on the iron-studded door. Rek opened it, beckoning him in.

“I see you are ready,” he said. “We won’t be long.”

Serbitar nodded. “The Drenai have met the Nadir,” he said.

“They are already at Delnoch?” asked Rek, alarmed.

“No, no,” answered Serbitar. “The legion met them in the outlands. They did well. Their leader is called Hogun. He, at least, is quality.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Your powers again?”

“Yes. Does it distress you?”

“It makes me uncomfortable. But only because I do not share the talent.”

“A wise observation, Rek. It will come to be more acceptable, believe me.” Serbitar bowed as Virae entered from the rear washroom.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said. Dressed in her armor, silver mail shirt, and bronze shoulder pads, she now also sported a silver helm, raven-winged, and a white cloak—gifts from Vintar. Her fair hair was braided on either side of her face.

“You look like a goddess,” Rek told her.

They joined the Thirty in the courtyard, checked their mounts, and rode alongside Serbitar and Menahem, heading for the Drinn estuary.

“Once there,” Menahem told them, “we will book passage on a Lentrian ship to Dros Purdol. It will save two weeks of travel. From Purdol we travel by river and road and should reach Delnoch in four weeks at the outside. I fear battle will be joined before we arrive.”

As the hours passed, the ride became a personal nightmare for Rek. His back was bruised and his buttocks numb before Serbitar called for a noon break. It was a short one, and the pain had become intense by dusk.

They camped in a small grove of trees near a stream. Virae almost fell from the saddle, fatigue—deep and numbing—showing in her every movement. But she was enough of a horsewoman to tend her mount before slumping to the ground, her back against a tree. Rek took more time wiping the lather from Lancer’s back and shoulders.
He
did not need to sit! He covered the horse with a blanket, then walked to the stream. Lancer was bearing up as well as the priests’ mounts, Rek thought with pride.

But he was still wary around the gelding. It had a tendency to snap at him even now. Rek smiled, thinking back.

“A fine mount,” Serbitar had said that morning, stepping forward to stroke the mane. Lancer had snapped, and Serbitar had leapt backward. “May I speak with him?” Serbitar had asked.

“With a horse?”

“It is more an empathic bond. I shall tell him I mean no harm.”

“Go ahead.”

After a little while Serbitar smiled. “He is being very friendly, but he is waiting to snap at me again. That, my friend, is a cantankerous animal.”

Rek walked back to the campsite to find four fires glowing merrily and the riders eating their oatcakes. Virae was asleep beneath a tree, wrapped in a red blanket, her head resting on her white cloak. He joined Serbitar, Vintar, and Menahem at their fire. Arbedark was talking softly to a nearby group.

“We’re pushing hard,” said Rek. “The horses won’t last.”

“We can rest aboard ship,” said Serbitar. “And we will be aboard the Lentrian vessel
Wastrel
early tomorrow. It sails with the morning tide, hence the urgency.”

“Even my bones are tired,” said Rek. “Is there any more news from Delnoch?”

“We will see later,” said Menahem, smiling. “I am sorry, friend Rek, for my testing of you. It was a mistake.”

“Please forget it—and what I said. The words were spoken in anger.”

“That is gracious. Before you joined us, we were talking of the Dros. It is our belief that under existing leadership it cannot last a week. Morale is low, and their leader, Orrin, is overwhelmed by his position and responsibility. We need a fair wind and no delays.”

“You mean it could be over before we arrive?” said Rek, his heart leaping.

“I think not,” said Vintar. “But the end may be near. Tell me, Regnak, why do you travel to Delnoch?”

“The possibility of stupidity can never be ruled out,” Rek told him without humor. “Anyway, we might not lose. Surely there is at least a faint chance.”

“Druss will be there soon,” said Vintar. “Much will depend on his reception. If it is good and we can arrive while the first wall holds, we should be able to harness the strengths of the defenders and guarantee resistance for about a month. I cannot see a mere ten thousand men holding for longer.”

“Woundweaver may send reinforcements,” said Menahem.

“Perhaps,” said Serbitar. “But unlikely. Already his marshals are scouring the empire. Virtually the entire army is gathered at Delnoch, with three thousand men holding Dros Purdol and another thousand at Corteswain.

“Abalayn has been foolish these last years, running down the army and cultivating trade agreements with Ulric. It was folly. Had it not been the Nadir attacking now, it would have been Vagria before long.

“My father would love to humble the Drenai. He has dreamed about it long enough.”

“Your father?” queried Rek.

“Earl Drada of Dros Segril. Did you not know?” said Serbitar.

“No, I didn’t. But Segril is only eighty miles west of Delnoch. Surely he will send men when he knows you are there.”

“No. My father and I are not friends; my talent unnerves him. However, if I am killed, he will be in blood feud with Ulric. That means he will swing his forces to Woundweaver. It may help the Drenai—but not Dros Delnoch.”

Menahem tossed twigs to the fire, holding his dark-skinned hands toward the blaze. “Abalayn has at least got one thing right. This Lentrian Woundweaver is quality. A warrior of the old school, tough, determined, and practical.”

“There are times, Menahem,” Vintar said, smiling gently, age sitting heavily on him following the hard ride, “when I doubt you will achieve your aim. Warriors of the old school, indeed!”

Menahem grinned broadly. “I can admire a man for his talents while debating his principles,” he said.

“Indeed you can, my boy. But did I not note the merest hint of empathy?” asked Vintar.

“You did, Master Abbot. But only a hint, I assure you.”

“I hope so, Menahem. I would not want to lose you before the journey. Your soul must be sure.”

Rek shivered. He had no idea what they were talking about. On reflection, he had no wish to know.

Dros Delnoch’s first line of defense was the wall Eldibar, spreading snakelike for almost a quarter of a mile across the Delnoch Pass. Forty-eight feet high when viewed from the north, a mere five feet from the south, like a giant step carved from the heart of a mountain in seamed granite.

Cul Gilad sat on the battlements, gazing somberly past the few trees toward the northern plains. His eyes scanned the shimmering distant horizon, searching for the telltale dust clouds that would herald the invasion. There was nothing to see. His dark eyes narrowed as he caught sight of an eagle high in the morning sky. Gilad smiled.

“Fly, you great golden bird. Live!” he shouted. Gilad pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. His legs were long and slim, his movements fluid, graceful. The new army shoes were half a size too large and packed with paper. His helm, a wondrous thing of bronze and silver, slipped over one eye. Cursing, he hurled it to the floor. One day he would write a battle hymn about army efficiency, he thought. His belly rumbled, and he cast his eyes about for his friend Bregan, gone to fetch their midmorning food. Black bread and cheese—bound to be. Endless wagons of supplies arriving daily at Delnoch, yet the midmorning meal was always black bread and cheese. Shielding his eyes, he could just make out Bregan’s tubby form ambling from the mess hall, bearing two platters and a jug. Gilad smiled. Good-natured Bregan. A farmer, a husband, a father. All these things he did well in his own soft, kindly easygoing way. But a soldier?

“Black bread and creamed cheese,” said Bregan, smiling. “We’ve had it only three times, and I’m already tired of it.”

“Are the carts still coming in?” asked Gilad.

“By the score. Still, I expect they know best what a warrior needs,” said Bregan. “I wonder how Lotis and the boys are bearing up.”

“News should be in later. Sybad always gets letters.”

“Yes. I’ve been here only two weeks and yet I miss the family terribly,” said Bregan. “I only joined up on the spur of the moment, Gil. That officer’s speech just got to me, I suppose.”

Gilad had heard it before—almost every day for the two weeks since first they had been issued with armor. Bregan should not be at Delnoch, he knew; he was tough enough, but in a way he lacked the heart. He was a farmer, a man who loved growing things. To destroy was alien to him.

“By the way,” said Bregan suddenly, his face echoing his excitement, “you’ll never guess who’s just arrived!”

“Who?”

“Druss the Legend. Can you believe it?”

“Are you sure, Bregan? I thought he was dead.”

“No. He arrived an hour ago. The whole mess hall is buzzing with the news. They say he’s bringing five thousand archers and a legion of axmen.”

“Don’t count on it, my friend,” said Gilad. “I’ve not been here long, but I would like a copper coin for every story I’ve heard about reinforcements, peace plans, treaties, and leave.”

“Well, even if he brings no one, it’s still good news, isn’t it? I mean, he is a hero, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is. Gods, he must be about seventy, though. That’s a bit old, isn’t it?”

“But he’s a
hero
.” Bregan stressed the word, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve heard stories about him all my life. He was a farmer’s son. And he’s never lost, Gil. Not ever. And he will be with us. Us! The next song about Druss the Legend will have us in it. Oh, I know we won’t be named—but we’ll know, won’t we? I’ll be able to tell little Legan that I fought beside Druss the Legend. It makes a difference, doesn’t it?”

“Of course it does,” said Gilad, dipping his black bread into the cheese and scanning the horizon. Still no movement. “Does your helmet fit?” he asked.

“No, it’s too small. Why?”

“Try mine.”

“We’ve been through that, Gil. Bar Kistrid says it’s against the rules to swap.”

“A pox on Bar Kistrid and his stupid rules. Try it on.”

“They all have numbers stamped inside.”

“Who cares? Try it on, for Missael’s sake.”

Bregan carefully looked around, reached across, and tried on Gilad’s helm.

“Well?” asked Gilad.

“It’s better. Still a little tight, but much better.”

“Give me yours,” Gilad placed Bregan’s helm over his own head; it was close to perfect. “Wonderful!” he said. “This will do.”