Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (26 page)

Ananais would stand alone if necessary, believing in Tenaka’s promise that he would return. And friendship was something infinitely more solid and greatly more sustaining than love of the land. Tenaka Khan would ride across the deepest pit of hell, endure the greatest hardships under the sun to fulfill his promise to Ananais.

He glanced back at the Skoda mountains. There the deaths would begin in earnest. Rayvan’s band stood on the anvil of history, staring up defiantly at Ceska’s hammer.

Ananais had ridden with him from the city just before dawn, and they had stopped on the brow of a hill.

“Look after yourself, you Nadir slop swiller!”

“And you, Drenai. Look to your valleys!”

“Seriously, Tani, take care. Get your army and come back swiftly. We don’t have long. I should think they will send a Delnoch force against us to soften us up for the main thrust.”

Tenaka nodded. “They will probe and cut, tire you out. Use the Thirty; they will be invaluable in the days to come. Have you anywhere in mind for a second base?”

“Yes, we are moving supplies to the high country south of the city. There are two narrow passes we could hold. But if they push us back there, we are finished. There is nowhere to run.”

The two men shook hands and then hugged one another warmly.

“I want you to know—” Tenaka began, but Ananais cut him short.

“I know, boy! You must hurry back. You can rely on old Darkmask to hold the fort.”

Tenaka grinned and rode for the Vagrian Plains.

14

F
or six days
there was no sign of hostile activity on the eastern Skoda borders. Refugees poured into the mountains, bringing tales of torture, starvation, and terror. The Thirty screened the refugees as best they could, turning away those found to be lying or secretly sympathetic to Ceska.

But day by day the numbers swelled as the outer lands were bled of people. Camps were set up in several valleys, and the problems of food supply and sanitation plagued Ananais. Rayvan took it in her stride, organizing the refugees into work parties to dig latrine trenches and build simple shelters for the elderly and infirm.

Young men came forward hourly to volunteer for the army, and it was left to Galand, Parsal, and Lake to sift them and find them duties among the Skoda militia.

But always they asked for Darkmask, the black-garbed giant. “Ceska’s Bane,” they called him, and among the newcomers were saga poets whose songs floated out in the night from the valley campfires.

Ananais found it irksome but hid it well, knowing how valuable the legends would be in the days to come.

Every morning he rode out into the mountains to study the valleys and the slopes, seeking the passes and gauging distances and angles of attack. He set men to work digging earth walls and ditches, moving rocks to form cover. Caches of arrows and lances were hidden at various points, along with sacks of food hung high in the branches of trees, screened by thick foliage. Each section leader knew of at least three caches.

At dusk Ananais would call the section leaders to his fire and question them about the day’s training, encouraging them to come forward with ideas, strategies, and plans. He carefully noted those who did so, keeping them with him when the others were dismissed. Lake, for all his idealistic fervor, was a sound thinker who responded intelligently. His knowledge of terrain was extensive, and Ananais used him well. Galand, too, was a canny warrior, and the men respected him; he was solid, dependable, and loyal. His brother, Parsal, was no thinker, but his courage was beyond question. To these of the inner circle Ananais added two others: Turs and Thorn. Solitary men who said little, both were former raiders who had earned their living crossing Vagrian lands and stealing cattle and horses to trade in the eastern valleys. Turs was young and full of fire; his brother and two sisters had been killed in the raid that had seen Rayvan rebel. Thorn was an older man, leather-tough and wolf-lean. The Skoda men respected them both and listened in silence when they spoke.

It was Thorn who brought news of the herald on the seventh day after Tenaka’s departure.

Ananais was scouting the eastern slopes of the mountain Carduil when Thorn found him, and he rode east at speed, Thorn alongside him.

Their horses were well lathered when Ananais finally reached the Valley of the Dawn, where Decado and six of the Thirty waited to greet him. Around them were some two hundred Skoda men, dug into position overlooking the plain beyond.

Ananais walked forward to climb a craggy outcrop of rock. Below him were six hundred warriors wearing the red of Delnoch. At the center on a white horse sat an elderly man in bright blue robes. His beard was white and long. Ananais recognized him and grinned sourly.

“Who is it?” asked Thorn.

“Breight. They call him the Survivor. I am not surprised: He has been a counselor for over forty years.”

“He must be Ceska’s man,” said Thorn.

“He is anybody’s man but a wise choice to send, for he is a diplomat and a patrician. He could tell you that wolves lay eggs and you would believe him.”

“Should we fetch Rayvan?”

“No. I will talk to him.”

At that moment six men rode forward to flank the aged counselor. Their cloaks and armor were black. As Ananais watched them look up and felt their eyes on him, ice flowed into his veins.

“Decado!” he shouted as the fear hit him. Instantly the warmth of friendship blanketed him as Decado and his six warriors turned the power of their minds to protect him.

Angry now, Ananais bellowed for Breight to approach. The old man hesitated, but one of the Templars leaned into him, and he spurred his horse forward, riding awkwardly up the steep slope.

“That is far enough!” said Ananais, moving forward.

“Is it you, Golden One?” Breight asked, his voice deep and resonant. The eyes were brown and exceedingly friendly.

“It is I. Say what you have to say.”

“There is no need for harshness between us, Ananais. Was I not the first to cheer when you were honored for your battle triumphs? Did I not secure your first commission with the Dragon? Was I not your mother’s troth holder?”

“All these things and more, old man! But now you are a lickspittle lackey to a tyrant and the past is dead.”

“You misjudge my lord Ceska: he has only the good of the Drenai in his heart. These are hard times, Ananais. Bitter hard. Our enemies wage a silent war upon us, starving us of food. Not one kingdom around us wishes to see the enlightenment of the Drenai prosper, for its signals the end of their corruption.”

“Spare me this nonsense, Breight! I cannot be bothered to argue with you. What do you want?”

“I see your terrible wounds have made you bitter, and I am sorry for that. I bring you a royal pardon! My lord is deeply offended by your actions against him, yet your past deeds have earned you a place in his heart. In your honor, he has pardoned every man who stands against him in Skoda. Further, he promises to review personally every grievance you have, real or imagined. Can he be fairer than that?”

Breight had pitched his voice to carry to the listening defenders, and his eyes scanned the line, watching for their reactions.

“Ceska would not know ‘fair’ if it burned his buttocks,” and Ananais. “The man is a snake!”

“I understand your hatred, Ananais—look at you … scarred, deformed, unhuman. But surely there is a shred of humanity left in you. Why should your hatred carry thousands of innocent souls to terrible deaths? You cannot win! The Joinings are now assembling, and there is no army on the face of the earth that can stand against them. Will you bring this devastation upon these people? Look into your heart, man!”

“I will not argue with you, old man. Down there your men wait, and among them are the Templars—they who feed on the flesh of children. Your semihuman beasts gather in Drenan, and daily thousands of innocents pour into this small bastion of freedom. All of this gives the lie to your words. I am not even angry with you, Breight the Survivor! You sold your soul for a silk-covered couch. But I understand you—you are a frightened old man who has never lived because you never dared to live.

“In these mountains, there is life and the air tastes like wine. You are right when you say we may not stand against the Joinings. We know that, for we are not fools. There is no glory here, but we are men and the sons of men, and we bend the knee to no one. Why don’t you join us and learn even now of the joys of freedom?”

“Freedom? You are in a cage, Ananais. The Vagrians will not let you move east into their lands, and we wait in the west. You delude yourself. What price your freedom? In a matter of days the armies of the emperor will gather here, filling the plain. You have seen the Joinings of Ceska—well, there are more to come. Huge beasts blended from the apes of the east, from the great bears of the north, from the wolves of the south. They strike like lightning and feed on human flesh. Your pitiful force will be swept aside like dust before a storm. Tell me then of freedom, Ananais. I desire not the freedom of the grave.”

“And yet it comes to you, Breight, in every white hair, every decaying wrinkle. Death will stalk you and lay his cold hands upon your eyes. You cannot escape! Begone, little man, your day is done.”

Breight looked up at the defenders and opened his arms.

“Don’t let this man deceive you!” he shouted. “My lord Ceska is a man of honor, and he will abide by his promise.”

“Go home and die!” said Ananais, turning on his heels and striding back to his men.

“Death will come to you before me,” screamed Breight, “and his coming will be terrible.” Then the old man wheeled his horse and cantered downhill.

“I think the war will start tomorrow,” muttered Thorn.

Ananais nodded and waved Decado to him. “What do you think?”

Decado shrugged. “We could not pierce the screen the Templars mounted.”

“Did they pierce ours?”

“No.”

“Then we start even,” said Ananais. “But they have tried to win us with words. Now it will be swords, and they will try to demoralize us by a sudden attack. The question is where, and what are we going to do about it?”

“Well,” said Decado, “the great Tertullian was once asked what he would do if he was attacked by a man stronger, faster, and infinitely more skillful than he.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he would cut off his damned head for being a liar.”

“Sounds good,” put in Thorn, “but words are not worth pigs’ droppings now.”

“You are right there,” said Ananais, grinning. “So what do you suggest, mountain man?”

“Let’s cut off their damned heads!”

The hut was bathed in a soft red glow as the log fire burned low. Ananais lay on the bed, his head resting on his arm. Valtaya sat beside him, rubbing oil into his shoulders and back, kneading the muscles, loosening the knots of tension around his spine. Her fingers were strong, and the slow rhythmic movements of her hands soothing. He sighed and fell into a half sleep, dreaming dreams of brighter days.

As her fingers began to burn with fatigue, she lifted them from his broad back, pushing pressure onto her palms for a while. His breathing deepened. She covered him with a blanket and then pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat staring at his ruined face. The angry scar below his eye seemed cooler now and dry; she gently smoothed oil on the skin. His breath made a snuffling sound as it was sucked through the oval holes where his nose should have been. Valtaya leaned back, sadness a growing ache within her. He was a fine man and did not deserve his fate. It had taken all her considerable nerve just to kiss him, and even now she could not gaze on his features without feeling revulsion. Yet she loved him.

Life was cruel and infinitely sorrowful.

She had slept with many men in her life. Once it had been a vocation, once a profession. During the latter time many ugly men had come to her, and with them she had learned to hide her feelings. She was glad now of the lessons, for when she had removed Ananais’ mask, two sensations had struck her simultaneously. One was the awful horror of his mutilated face. The other was the terrible anxiety in his eyes. Strong as he was, in that moment he was made of crystal. Now she transferred her gaze to his hair: tightly curled gold thread laced with silver. The Golden One! How handsome he once must have been. Like a god. She pushed a hand through her own fair hair, sweeping it away from her eyes.