Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (24 page)

“Where will you find an army?”

“Among my people.”

The silence in the senate hall was devastating. Men exchanged nervous glances, and only Ananais seemed unmoved; he leaned back in his chair, placing his booted feet on the tabletop.

“Explain yourself,” murmured Rayvan.

“I think you know what I mean,” Tenaka said coolly. “The one people with enough warriors to trouble Ceska are the Nadir. If I am lucky, I will raise an army.”

“You would bring those murderous savages into the Drenai? They are worse than Ceska’s Joinings,” said Rayvan, pushing herself to her feet. “I will not have it. I will die before those barbarians set foot on Skoda land.”

All around men hammered their fists on the table in support. Then Tenaka stood up, raising his hands for silence.

“I appreciate the sentiments of everyone here. I was raised among the Nadir, and I know their ways. But they do not eat babies, nor do they mate with demons. They are men, fighting men who live for war. It is their way. And they have honor. But I am not here to defend my people. I am here to give you a chance of staying alive through the summer.

“You think you have won a great victory? You won nothing but a skirmish. Ceska will throw fifty thousand men against you come the summer. With what will you reply?

“And if you are defeated, what will happen to your families? Ceska will turn Skoda into a desert, and where there were trees, there will be gibbets: a land of cadavers, desolate and tormented.

“There is no guarantee that I can raise an army among the Nadir. To them I am tainted by round-eye blood, accursed and less than a man. For they are no different from you. Nadir children are raised on stories of your debaucheries, and our legends are filled with tales of your genocide.

“I do not seek your permission for what I do. To be truthful, I don’t give a damn! I leave tomorrow.”

He sat down to silence, and Ananais leaned over to him.

“There was no need to beat about the bush,” he said. “You should have given it to them straight.”

The comment produced an involuntary snort from Rayvan, which turned into a throaty chuckle.

Around the table the tension turned to laughter while Tenaka sat with arms folded, his face flushed and stern.

Finally Rayvan spoke. “I do not like your plan, my friend. And I think I speak for everyone here. But you have played fair by us, and without you we would now be crows’ meat.” She sighed and leaned over the table, placing her hand on Tenaka’s arm. “You do give a damn, or else you would not be here, and if you are wrong, then so be it. I will stand by you. Bring your Nadir if you can, and I will embrace the first goat-eating dog soldier who rides in with you.”

Tenaka relaxed and looked long into her green eyes.

“You are quite a woman, Rayvan,” he whispered.

“You would be wise not to forget it, General!”

13

A
nanais rode from
the city at dusk, anxious to be free of its noisy confines. Once he had loved the city life with its endless rounds of parties and hunts. There were beautiful women to be loved, men to be bested at wrestling or mock swordplay. There were falcons and tourneys and dances overlapping one another as the most civilized western nation indulged in pleasure.

But then he had been the Golden One and the subject of legend.

He lifted the black mask from his torn face and felt the wind ease the angry scar. Riding to a nearby hilltop crowned with rowan trees, he slid from the saddle and sat staring at the mountains. Tenaka was right: there had been no reason to kill the legion men. It was proper that they wished to go back—it was their duty. But then, hate was a potent force, and Ananais carried hate carved in his heart. He hated Ceska for what he had done to the land and its people, and he hated the people for allowing it. He hated the flowers for their beauty and the air around him for granting him breath.

Most of all he hated himself for not having the courage to end his misery.

What did these Skoda peasants know of his reasons for being among them? They had cheered him on the day of the battle and again when he had arrived in the city. “Darkmask,” they called him, a hero out of the past built in the image of the immortal Druss.

What did they know of his grief?

He stared down at the mask. Even in this there was vanity, for the front was built out in the shape of a nose. He might just as well have cut two holes in it.

He was a man without a face and without a future. Only the past brought him pleasure, but with that came the pain. All he had now was his prodigious strength, and that was failing. He was forty-six years old, and time was running out.

For the thousandth time he remembered the arena battle with the Joining. Had there been another way to kill the beast? Could he have saved himself this torment? He watched the battle once more through the eye of memory. There
was
no other way: the beast had been twice as strong and half again as swift as he. It was a miracle that he had slain it at all.

His horse whinnied, its ears flicking up, its head turning. Ananais replaced his mask and waited. Within seconds his keen hearing caught the soft clip-clopping of a walking horse.

“Ananais!” Valtaya called from the darkness. “Are you there?” He cursed softly, for he was in no mood for company.

“Over here! On the lee of the hill.”

She rode to him and slipped from the saddle, dropping the reins over her mount’s neck. The gold of her hair had turned silver in the moonlight, and her eyes reflected the stars.

“What do you want?” he asked, turning away and sitting down on the grass. She removed her cloak and spread it on the ground, seating herself on it.

“Why did you ride here alone?”

“To be alone. I have much to think about.”

“Say the word and I shall ride back,” she said.

“I think you should,” he said, but she did not move, as he had known she would not.

“I, too, am lonely,” she murmured. “But I do not want to be alone. I am alone, and I have no place here.”

“I can offer you nothing, woman!” he snapped, his voice as rough as the words ripped from him.

“You could let me have your company, at least,” she said, and the floodgates opened. Tears welled from her eyes, and her head dropped; then the sobs began.

“Whisht, woman, there’s no call for tears. What have you to cry about? There is no need for you to be lonely. You are very attractive, and Galand is well smitten with you. He is a good man.” But as the sobs continued, he moved to her side, curling a huge arm around her shoulder and pulling her to him.

She pushed her head against his chest, and the sobbing died down into ragged crying. He patted her back and stroked her hair; her arm crept around his waist, and she gently pushed him back to lie on her cloak. A terrible desire seized Ananais, and he wanted her then more than anything life could offer. Her body pressed down on his, and he could feel the warmth of her breasts on his chest.

Her hand moved to his mask, but he grasped her wrist with a swiftness that stunned her.

“
Don’t!
” he pleaded, releasing her hand. But slowly she lifted the mask, and he closed his eyes as the night air washed over his scars. Her lips touched his forehead, then his eyelids, then both ruined cheeks. He had no mouth to return her kisses, and he wept; she held him close until the crying passed.

“I swore,” he said at last, “that I would die before a woman would see me this way.”

“A woman loves a man. A face is not a man, any more than a leg is a man, or a hand. I love you, Ananais! And your scars are a part of you. Do you see that?”

“There is a difference,” he said, “between love and gratitude. I rescued you, but you don’t owe me anything. You never will.”

“You are right—I am grateful. But I would not give myself to you out of gratitude. I am not a child. I know you do not love me. Why should you? You had your pick of all the beauties in Drenan and refused them. But I love you and I want you—even for the short time that we have.”

“You know, then?”

“Of course I know! We will not defeat Ceska. We never could. But that is not of consequence. He will die. All men die.”

“You think what we do is nonsense?”

“No. There will always be those … must always be those … who will stand against the Ceskas of the world. So that in times to come men will know that there have always been heroes to stand against the darkness. We need men like Druss and the Earl of Bronze, like Egel and Karnak, like Bild and Ironlatch. They give us pride and a sense of purpose. And we need men like Ananais and Tenaka Khan. It matters not that the Torchbearer cannot win, only that the light shine for a little while.”

“You are well read, Val,” he said.

“I am not a fool, Ananais.” Leaning over him, she kissed his face once more. Gently she pressed her mouth to his. He groaned, and his great arms encircled her.

Rayvan could not sleep; the air was oppressive and heavy with the threat of storms. Throwing aside her heavy blanket, she left the bed, wrapping a woolen robe about her sturdy frame. Then she opened the window wide, but not a breath of wind traveled over the mountains.

The night was velvet dark, and tiny bats skittered and flew around the tower and down into the fruit trees of the garden. A badger, caught in a shaft of moonlight, glared up at her window and then shuffled away into the undergrowth. She sighed. There was such beauty to the night. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and from the window she could just make out the figure of a white-cloaked warrior kneeling by a rosebush. Then he stood, and in that fluid motion she recognized Decado.

Rayvan left the window and moved silently through the long corridors, down the winding stairway, and out into the courtyard garden. Decado was leaning against a low wall, watching the moonlight on the mountains. He heard Rayvan’s approach and turned to meet her, the ghost of a welcoming smile on his thin lips.

“Engaged in solitude?” she asked him.

“Merely thinking.”

“This is a good place for it. Peaceful.”

“Yes.”

“I was born up there,” she said, pointing east “My father had a small farm beyond the timberline—cattle and ponies mostly. It was a good life.”

“We shall not hold any of this, Rayvan.”

“I know. When the time comes, we will move farther back into the high country, where the passes narrow.”

He nodded. “I don’t think Tenaka will come back.”

“Don’t write him off, Decado. He is a canny man.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I served under him for six years.”

“Do you like him?”

A sudden smile lit his face, burning the years from him. “Of course I like him. He is the closest to a friend I have ever had.”

“What about your men, your Thirty?”

“What about them?” he asked guardedly.

“Do you see them as your friends?”

“No.”

“Then why do they follow you?”

“Who knows? They have a dream: a desire to die. It is all beyond me. Tell me about your farm. Were you happy there?”

“Yes. A good husband, fine children, a nourished land beneath an open sky. What more can a woman ask on the journey between birth and death?”

“Did you love your husband?”

“What kind of question is that?” she snapped.

“I did not mean to give offense. You never mention him by name.”

“That has nothing to do with lack of love. In fact, the reverse is true. When I say his name, it brings home to me just what I have lost. But I hold his image in my heart—you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you never marry?”

“I never wanted to, never had the desire to share my life with a woman. I am not comfortable with people, save on my own terms.”

“Then you were wise,” said Rayvan.

“You think so?”

“I think so. You and your friends are very alike, you know. You are all incomplete men—terribly sad and very alone. No wonder you are drawn together! The rest of us can share our lives, swap jests and tall tales, laugh together, cry together. We live and love and grow. We offer each other small comforts daily, and they help us survive. But you have nothing like that to offer. Instead you offer your life—your death.”