Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (28 page)

“You cannot touch me!” he screamed. “The spirit is stronger than the Source. You are powerless against me!”

The warrior shook his head.

“Damn you!” shouted Caphas as his shield disappeared. He charged forward, slashing wildly.

Acuas parried the blow with ease and then slid his own blade deep into the Templar’s chest. The man gasped as the icy sword cleaved his spirit flesh. Then his soul guttered and died, and beyond it, his body toppled to the earth.

Acuas vanished. Two hundred paces into the wood he opened the eyes of his body and sagged into the supporting arms of Decado and Katan.

“All the Templar guards are dead,” he said.

“Good work!” praised Decado.

“I feel strained by their evil. Even to touch them is to be as one accursed.”

Decado moved back silently to where Ananais waited with a hundred warriors. Thorn crouched to his left, Galand to his right. Fifty of the warriors were legion men of whom Ananais was unsure. Though he trusted Decado’s instincts, the talents of the Thirty left him skeptical still. Tonight he would see whether these men were with him. He was uncomfortably aware of their swords around him.

Ananais led the force to the edge of the trees. Beyond lay the tents of the Delnoch army, a hundred of them, each giving shelter to six men. Beyond the tents were the picket ropes where the horses were tethered.

“I want Breight alive, and I want those horses,” whispered Ananais. “Galand, take fifty men and lead the mounts clear. The rest can follow me.” He moved forward, crouching low, his dark-armored warriors spreading out behind him.

As they reached the tents, the force split up, armed men silently lifting the front flaps and stepping stealthily inside. Daggers were drawn across sleeping throats, and men died without a sound. At the edge of the camp a sleeping soldier was awakened by the pressure of a full bladder; he rolled from his blanket and stepped out into the night air. The first thing he saw was a black-masked giant bearing down on him, followed by twenty swordsmen. He screamed once … and died.

Suddenly all was chaos as men surged from the tents with swords in hand. Ananais cut two warriors from his path and cursed loudly. Breight’s tent was just ahead, blue silk bearing the white horse emblem of the Drenai herald.

“To me, legion!” he bellowed, and ran forward. A soldier ran at him with a spear, but Ananais sidestepped the weapon, his own sword sweeping viciously in a tight arc that smashed the man’s ribs to shards. Ananais ran on, wrenching open the tent flap and stepping inside. Breight was hiding below his bed, but Ananais dragged him out by his hair and hurled him into the night.

Old Thorn ran to Ananais as he emerged. “We are in a little trouble, Darkmask,” he said.

The fifty legion men had closed ranks by Breight’s tent, but all around them the Delnoch warriors stood ready, awaiting the order to move in. Ananais dragged Breight to his feet and pushed his way to the front of the line.

“Order your men to lay down their weapons or I will cut your miserable throat,” he hissed.

“Yes, yes,” whimpered the graybeard, holding up his hands. “Men of Ceska, lay aside your weapons. My life is too valuable to be thrown away in such a fashion. Let them go, I command you!”

A Dark Templar stepped from the line. “You are worth nothing, old man! You had one mission—to talk these dogs from the hills. You failed.” His arm swept back, then down, and a black dagger hammered into Breight’s throat. The old man staggered and fell to his knees. “Now take them!” yelled the Templar, and the Delnoch men surged forward. Ananais cut and thrust as the forces met, drawing the enemy to him like moths to a candle. His swords flickered among them faster than the eye could follow. Around him the legion men fought hard and well, and old Thorn ducked and cut cunningly.

Suddenly the thunder of hooves overrode the sounds of clashing steel, and the Delnoch line waved as men glanced back to see a fresh force racing into the fray.

Galand’s group hit the rear of the Delnoch force like a hammer blow, scattering the enemy. As Ananais ran forward, yelling for the men to follow him, a sword lanced into his side. He grunted and backhanded a cut that swept the attacker from his feet. Decado spurred his horse toward Ananais, holding out his left arm. Ananais grasped it and vaulted to the saddle behind the priest. Other legion men followed suit, and the Skoda warriors galloped from the camp. Ananais glanced back, seeking Thorn and spotted him clinging to Galand.

“He’s certainly a tough old man!” said Ananais.

Decado said nothing. He had just received a report from Balan, whose task had been to scout the land over Drenan in order to study the marshaling of Ceska’s main force. The news was not good.

Ceska had wasted no time.

The Joinings were already on the march, and there was no way Tenaka Khan could bring a Nadir force to intercept them.

According to Balan, the army would be camped by the Skoda valleys in four days.

All Tenaka could do was avenge them, for no force on earth was going to hold the werebeasts of Ceska.

Ananais rode into the city, holding himself straight in the saddle though weariness sat upon him like a boulder. He had spent a day and two nights with his lieutenants and their section leaders, informing them of Ceska’s lightning march. Many leaders would have disguised the threat, fearing desertions and loss of morale, but Ananais had never subscribed to that theory. Men waiting to die had every right to know what lay in store.

But now he was tired.

The city was quiet, for dawn was only two hours old, but even so children gathered to play in the street, halting their game to watch Darkmask ride by. His horse almost lost its footing on the shiny cobbles, and Ananais pulled up its head and patted its neck.

“Almost as tired as me, eh, boy?”

An old man, thickset and balding, stepped from a garden to the right. His face was flushed and angry.

“You!” he shouted, pointing at the rider. Ananais halted his mount, and the man came forward, some twenty children bunching behind him.

“You want to talk to me, friend?”

“I am no friend to you, butcher! I just wanted you to see these children.”

“Well, I have seen them. They are a fine bunch.”

“Fine, are they? Their parents were fine, but now they’re rotting in the Demon’s Smile. And for what? So that you can play with a shiny sword!”

“Have you finished?”

“Not by a damn sight! What is going to happen to these children when the Joinings arrive? I was a soldier once, and I know you can’t hold those hellbeasts—they will come into this city and destroy every living thing. What will happen to these children then?”

Ananais touched his heels to his mount, and the horse moved away.

“That’s right!” yelled the man. “Ride away from the problem. But remember their faces, you hear me?”

Ananais rode on through the winding streets until he reached the council building. A young man came forward to take his horse, and Ananais mounted the marble steps.

Rayvan sat alone in the hall, staring—as she often did—at the faded mural. She had lost weight in the last few days. Once more she was wearing the chain-mail shirt and broad belt, her dark hair swept back and tied at her neck.

She smiled as she saw Ananais and gestured him to a chair beside her. “Welcome, Darkmask,” she said. “If you have bad news, hold on to it for a little while. I have enough of my own.”

“What happened?” asked Ananais.

She waved her hand and closed her eyes, unable to speak. Then she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Is the sun shining?” she asked.

“It is, lady.”

“Good! I like to see the sun on the mountains. It carries a promise of life. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Then let us go to the kitchen and find something. We will eat in the tower garden.”

They sat in the shade of a thick flowering shrub. Rayvan had picked up a black loaf and some cheese, but neither of them ate. The silence itself was comforting.

“I hear you were lucky to escape with your life,” Rayvan said at last. “How is your side?”

“I heal fast, lady. The wound was not deep, and the stitches will hold.”

“My son, Lucas—he died last night. We had to remove his leg … gangrene.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ananais said lamely.

“He was very brave. Now there is only Lake and Ravenna. Soon there will be no one. How did we come to this, Darkmask? Tell me.”

“I don’t know. We let a crazy man come to power.”

“Did we truly? It seems to me that a man has only as much power as we allow him. Can Ceska move mountains? Can he put out the stars? Can he tell rain to fall? He is only a man, and if everyone disobeyed him, he would fall. But they don’t, do they? It is said that he has an army of forty thousand men.
Men
. Drenai men! Ready to march on other Drenai men. At least in the Nadir Wars we were sure of our enemy. Now there is no enemy. Only failed friends.”

“What can I say?” asked Ananais. “I have no answers. You should have asked Tenaka. I am just a warrior. I remember a tutor who told me that all the world’s hunters had eyes that faced front: lions, hawks, wolves, men. And all the world’s prey had eyes on either side to give them a greater chance of spotting the hunter. He said man was no different from the tiger. We are nature’s killers, and we have great appetites for it. Even the heroes we remember show our love of war. Druss, the greatest killing machine of all time—it is his image you stare upon in the council chamber.”

“True enough,” said Rayvan. “But there is a difference between Druss and Ceska. The Legend fought always for others to be free.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Rayvan. Druss fought because he loved to fight—it was what he did well. Study his history. He went east and battled for the tyrant Gorben; his army razed cities, villages, nations. Druss was part of it, and he would have offered no excuses. Neither should you.”

“Are you saying there never were true heroes?”

“I wouldn’t know a hero if he bit my buttocks! Listen, Rayvan, the beast is in all of us. We do our best in life, but often we are mean, or petty, or needlessly cruel. We don’t mean to be, but that’s the way we
are
. Most of the heroes we remember—we remember because they won. To win you must be ruthless. Single-minded. Druss was like that, which was why he had no friends—just admirers.”

“Can we win, Ananais?”

“No. But what we can do is make Ceska suffer so greatly that someone else might win. We shall not live to see Tenaka return. Ceska is already on the march, but we must tie him down, give him losses—crack the aura of invincibility he has built around his Joinings.”

“But even the Dragon could not stand against the beasts.”

“The Dragon was betrayed, caught on open ground. And many of them were old men. Fifteen years is a long time. They were not the real Dragon. We are the real Dragon, and by the gods, we’ll make them suffer!”

“Lake has devised some weapons he wants you to see.”

“Where is he?”

“In the old stables at the southern quarter. But take some rest first—you look exhausted.”

“I will.” He pushed himself to his feet, staggered slightly, and then laughed. “I’m getting old, Rayvan.” He moved away several paces, then returned and placed his huge right hand on her shoulder. “I am not good at sharing, lady. But I’m sorry about Lucas. He was a good man, a credit to you.”

“Go and get some rest. The days are growing shorter, and you will need your strength. I’m relying on you—we are all relying on you.”

After he had gone, she wandered to the wall and gazed out over the mountains.

Death felt very close.

And she did not care.

Tenaka Khan was sick with fury. His hands were tied tightly with rawhide thongs, and his body was lashed to the trunk of a slender elm. Before him five men sat around a camp fire searching through his saddlebags. His small cache of gold had been discovered and now lay next to the leader, a one-eyed rogue, thickset and surly. Tenaka blinked away the thin stream of blood that trickled into his right eye and closed his mind to the pain of his bruises.

He had been too preoccupied as he had ridden into the forest, and a stone from a sling had hammered into his temple, toppling him from his horse semiconscious. Even then, as the outlaws had rushed him, he had drawn his sword and killed one before they bore him down, hitting him with clubs and sticks. The last words he heard before darkness fell were, “He killed my brother. Don’t kill him—I want him alive.”

And here he was, less than four days out of Skoda, tied to a tree and moments away from a gruesome death. Frustration tore at him, and he wrenched at the ropes, but they were expertly tied. His legs ached, and his back burned.

The one-eyed outlaw stood up and walked to the tree, his face a mask of bitterness.

“You pig-rutting barbarian—you killed my brother!”

Tenaka said nothing.

“Well, you will pay for it. I shall cut you into tiny pieces, then cook your flesh on that fire and force you to eat it. How do you like that?”

Tenaka ignored him, and the man’s fist lashed out. Tenaka tensed the muscles of his stomach just as the blow struck, but the pain was terrible. As his head sagged, the man hit him in the side of the face.

“Speak to me, Nadir dung!” hissed the outlaw.

Tenaka spit blood to the ground and licked his swollen lip.

“You will talk to me; before dawn I will have you singing a sweet song.”

“Cut out his eyes, Baldur!” said one of the outlaws.

“No. I want him to see everything.”

“Just one, then,” urged the man.

“Yes,” said Baldur. “Maybe just one.” He drew his dagger and moved forward. “How would you like that, Nadir? One of your eyes dangling from your cheek?”

A ghostly cry echoed into the night, high-pitched and eerie.

“What in the seven hells was that?” said Baldur, spinning around. The others made the sign of the protective horn and reached for their weapons.

“It sounded close,” said one, a short man with a sandy beard.

“Cat, maybe. Sounded like it could be a cat,” said Baldur. “Build up the fire.” Two men scurried forward, gathering up dry wood as Baldur turned back to Tenaka. “You ever heard that sound before, Nadir?”