Drenai Saga 01 - Legend

by David Gemmell

  A Sathuli within the Drenai fortress?

  “What do you do here?” yelled Ogasi.

  “Merely helping a friend,” replied the man. “Go back! I shall not let you pass.”

  Ogasi grinned. So the man was a lunatic. Lifting his sword, he ordered the tribesmen forward. The white-robed figure advanced on them.

  “Sathuli!” he yelled.

  From the buildings came a mighty answering roar as three thousand Sathuli warriors, their white robes ghostly in the gathering darkness, streamed to the attack.

  The Nadir were stunned, and Ogasi could not believe his eyes. The Sathuli and the Drenai were lifelong enemies. He knew it was happening, but his brain would not drink it in. Like a white tide on a dark beach, the Sathuli front line crashed into Nadir.

  Joachim sought Ogasi, but the stocky tribesman was lost amid the chaos.

  The savage twist to events, from certain victory to certain death, dismayed the tribesmen. Panic set in, and a slow withdrawal became a rout. Trampling their comrades, the Nadir turned and ran with the white army at their backs, harrying them on with screams as bestial as any heard on the Nadir steppes.

  On the walls above, Rek was bleeding from wounds in his upper arms and Hogun had suffered a sword cut to his scalp, blood running from the gash and skin flapping as he lashed out at his attackers.

  Now Sathuli warriors appeared on the battlements and once more the Nadir fled their terrible tulwars, backing to the walls and seeking escape down the ropes.

  Within minutes it was over. Elsewhere on the open ground small pockets of Nadir warriors were surrounded and dispatched.

  Joachim Sathuli, his white robes stained with crimson, slowly mounted the rampart steps, followed by his seven lieutenants. He approached Rek and bowed. Turning, he handed his bloody tulwars to a dark-bearded warrior. Another man passed him a scented towel. Slowly, elaborately, he wiped his face and then his hands. Finally he spoke.

  “A warm welcome,” he said, his face unsmiling but his eyes full of humor.

  “Indeed,” said Rek. “It is lucky the other guests had to leave; otherwise there would not have been any room.”

  “Are you so surprised to see me?”

  “No, not surprised. Astonished sounds more accurate.”

  Joachim laughed. “Is your memory so short, Delnoch? You said we should part as friends, and I agreed. Where else should I be in a friend’s hour of need?”

  “You must have had the devil’s own task convincing your warriors to follow you.”

  “Not at all,” answered Joachim, an impish gleam in his eyes. “Most of their lives they have longed to fight inside these walls.”

  The tall Sathuli warrior stood on the high walls of Geddon, gazing down at the Nadir camp beyond the deserted battlements of Valteri. Rek was asleep now, and the bearded prince strode the walls alone. Around him were sentries and soldiers of both races, but Joachim remained solitary.

  For weeks Sathuli scouts atop the Delnoch range had watched the battle raging below. Often Joachim himself had scaled the peaks to view the fighting. Then a Nadir raiding party had struck at a Sathuli village, and Joachim had persuaded his men to follow him to Delnoch. Added to this, he knew of the traitor who dealt with the Nadir, for he had witnessed a meeting in a high, narrow pass between the traitor and the Nadir captain, Ogasi.

  Two days later the Nadir had tried to send a force over the mountains, and the Sathuli had repulsed it.

  Joachim heard the news of Rek’s loss with sadness. Fatalistic himself, he could still share the feelings of a man whose woman had died. His own had died in childbirth two years before, and the wound was still fresh.

  Joachim shook his head. War was a savage mistress but a woman of power nonetheless. She could wreak more havoc in a man’s soul than time.

  The Sathuli arrival had been timely and not without cost. Four hundred of his men were dead, a loss scarcely bearable to a mountain people who numbered a mere thirty thousand, many of those being children and ancients.

  But a debt was a debt.

  The man Hogun hated him, Joachim knew. But this was understandable, for Hogun was of the legion and the Sathuli had spilled legion blood for years. They reserved their finest tortures for captured riders. This was an honor, but Joachim knew the Drenai could never understand. When a man died, he was tested—the harder the death, the greater the rewards in paradise. Torture advanced a man’s soul, and the Sathuli could offer no greater reward to a captured enemy.

  He sat upon the battlements and stared back at the keep. For how many years had he longed to take this fortress? How many of his dreams had been filled with pictures of the keep in flames?

  And now he was defending it with the lives of his followers.

  He shrugged. A man with his eyes on the sky did not see the scorpion below his feet. A man with his eyes on the ground did not see the dragon in the air.

  He paced the ramparts, coming at last to the gate tower and the stone inscription carved there: geddon.

  The wall of death.

  The air was thick with the smell of death, and the morning would see the crows fly in to the feast. He should have killed Rek in the woods. A promise to an unbeliever was worth nothing, so why had he kept it? He laughed suddenly, accepting the answer: Because the man had not cared.

  And Joachim liked him.

  He passed a Drenai sentry who saluted him and smiled. Joachim nodded, noting the uncertainty of the smile.

  He had told the Earl of Bronze that he and his men would stay for one more day and then return to the mountains. He had expected a plea to remain—offers, promises, treaties. But Rek had merely smiled.

  “It is more than I would have asked for,” he said.

  Joachim was stunned, but he could say nothing. He told Rek of the traitor and of the Nadir attempt to cross the mountains.

  “Will you still bar the way?”

  “Of course. That is Sathuli land.”

  “Good! Will you eat with me?”

  “No, but I thank you for the offer.”

  No Sathuli could break bread with an unbeliever.

  Rek nodded. “I think I will rest now,” he said. “I will see you at dawn.”

  In his high room in the keep Rek slept, dreaming of Virae, always of Virae. He awoke hours before dawn and reached out for her. But the sheets beside him were cold, and as always, he felt the loss anew. On this night he wept long and soundlessly. Finally he rose, dressed, and descended the stairs to the small hall. The manservant Arshin brought him a breakfast of cold ham and cheese, with a flagon of cold water laced with honey mead. He ate mechanically until a young officer approached with the news that Bricklyn had returned with dispatches from Drenan.

  The burgher entered the hall, bowed briefly, and approached the table, laying before Rek several packages and a large sealed scroll. He seated himself opposite Rek and asked if he could pour himself a drink. Rek nodded as he opened the scroll. He read it once, smiled, then laid it aside and looked across at the burgher. He was thinner and perhaps even grayer than the first time Rek had seen him. He was still dressed in riding clothes, and his green cloak was dust-covered. Bricklyn drained the water in two swallows and refilled his cup; then he noticed Rek’s eyes upon him.

  “You have seen the message from Abalayn?” he asked.

  “Yes. Thank you for bringing it. Will you stay?”

  “But of course. Surrender arrangements must be made, and Ulric welcomed to the keep.”

  “He has promised to spare no one,” said Rek softly.

  Bricklyn waved his hand. “Nonsense! That was war talk. Now he will be magnanimous.”

  “And what of Woundweaver?”

  “He has been recalled to Drenan, and the army disbanded.”

  “Are you pleased?”

  “That the war is over? Of course. Though I am naturally saddened that so many had to die. I hear that Druss fell at Sumitos. A great shame. He was a fine man and a magnificent warrior. But it was as he would have wished to go, I
am sure. When would you like me to see Lord Ulric?”

  “As soon as you wish.”

  “Will you accompany me?”

  “No.”

  “Then who will?” asked Bricklyn, noting with pleasure the resignation mirrored in Rek’s face.

  “No one.”

  “No one? But that would not be politic, my lord. There should be a deputation.”

  “You will travel alone.”

  “Very well. What terms shall I negotiate?”

  “You will negotiate nothing. You will merely go to Ulric and say that I have sent you.”

  “I do not understand, my lord. What would you have me say?”

  “You will say that you have failed.”

  “Failed? In what? You speak in riddles. Are you mad?”

  “No. Just tired. You betrayed us, Bricklyn, but then, I expect nothing less from your breed. Therefore, I am not angry. Or vengeful. You have taken Ulric’s pay, and now you may go to him. The letter from Abalayn is a forgery, and Woundweaver will be here in five days with over fifty thousand men. Outside there are three thousand Sathuli, and we can hold the wall. Now be gone! Hogun knows that you are a traitor and has told me that he will kill you if he sees you. Go now.”

  For several minutes Bricklyn sat stunned, then he shook his head. “This is madness! You cannot hold! It is Ulric’s day, can you not see it? The Drenai are finished, and Ulric’s star shines. What do you hope to achieve?”

  Rek slowly drew a long, slender dagger and placed it on the table before him.

  “Go now,” he repeated quietly.

  Bricklyn rose and stormed to the door. He turned in the doorway.

  “You fool!” he spit. “Use the dagger on yourself, for what the Nadir will do when they take you will make merry viewing.” Then he was gone.

  Hogun stepped from behind a tapestry-covered alcove and moved to the table. His head was bandaged, and his face pale. In his hand he held his sword.

  “How could you let him go, Rek? How?”

  Rek smiled. “Because I couldn’t be bothered to kill him.”

  30

  The last candle guttered and died as a light autumn wind billowed the curtains. Rek slept on, head resting on his arms at the table where only an hour before he had sent Bricklyn to the Nadir. His sleep was light but dreamless. He shivered as the room became cooler, then awoke with a start in the darkness. Fear touched him, and he reached for his dagger. He shivered again. It was cold … so cold. He glanced at the fire. It was blazing, but no heat reached him. He stood and walked toward it, squatting in front of it and opening his hands to the heat. Nothing. Confused, he stood once more and turned back to the table, and then the shock hit him.

  Head resting on his arms, the figure of Earl Regnak still slept there. He fought down panic, watching his sleeping form, noting the weariness in the gaunt face, the dark-hollowed eyes, and the lines of strain about the mouth.

  Then he noticed the silence. Even at this late hour of deepest darkness some sounds should be heard from sentries or servants or the few cooks preparing the morning’s breakfast. But there was nothing. He moved to the doorway and beyond into the darkened corridor, then beyond that into the shadow of the portcullis gate. He was alone. Beyond the gate were the walls, but no sentries paced them. He walked on in the darkness, and the clouds cleared and the moon shone brightly.

  The fortress was deserted.

  From the high walls of Geddon he looked to the north. The plain was empty. No Nadir tents were pitched there.

  So he was truly alone. Panic left him, and a deep sense of peace covered his soul like a warm blanket. He sat on the ramparts, gazing back at the keep.

  Was this a taste of death? he wondered. Or merely a dream? He cared not. Whether a foretaste of tomorrow’s reality or the result of a needed fantasy was immaterial. He was enjoying the moment.

  And then, with a deep sense of warmth, he knew that he was not alone. His heart swelled, and tears came to his eyes. He turned, and she was there: Dressed as he had first seen her, with a bulky sheepskin jerkin and woolen trews, she opened her arms and walked into his embrace. He held her tightly to him, pressing his face into her hair. For a long time they stood thus while deep sobs racked his body. Finally the crying subsided, and he gently released her. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “You have done well, Rek,” she said. “I am so proud of you.”

  “Without you it is meaningless,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t change anything, Rek. If they told me that I could have my life again but not meet you, I would refuse. What does it matter that we had only months? What months they were!”

  “I never loved anyone as I loved you,” he said.

  “I know.”

  They talked for hours, but the moon shone from the same place and the stars were static, the night eternal. Finally she kissed him to stem his words.

  “There are others you must see.”

  He tried to argue, but she held her fingers to his mouth. “We will meet again, my love. For now, speak to the others.”

  Around the walls was now a mist, swirling and thick. Overhead the moon shone in a cloudless sky. She walked into the mist and was gone. He waited, and soon a figure in silver armor came toward him. As always he looked fresh and alert, his armor reflected the moonlight, and his white cloak was spotless. He smiled.

  “Well met, Rek,” said Serbitar. They clasped hands in the warrior’s grip.

  “The Sathuli came,” said Rek. “You held the gate just long enough.”

  “I know. Tomorrow will be hard, and I will not lie to you. All futures have I seen, and in only one do you survive the day. But there are forces here which I cannot explain to you, and even now their magic is at work. Fight well!”

  “Will Woundweaver arrive?” asked Rek.

  Serbitar shrugged. “Not tomorrow.”

  “Then we will fall?”

  “It is likely. But if you do not, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Name it,” said Rek.

  “Go once more to Egel’s room, where there is a last gift for you. The servant Arshin will explain.”

  “What is it? Is it a weapon? I could use it tomorrow.”

  “It is not a weapon. Go there tomorrow night.”

  “Serbitar?”

  “Yes, my friend.”

  “Was all as you dreamed it would be? The Source, I mean?”

  “Yes! And so much more. But I cannot speak of it now. Wait for a while longer. There is another who must speak with you.”

  The mist deepened, and Serbitar’s white form drew back until he merged and was gone.

  And Druss was there. Mighty and strong, his black jerkin glistening, his ax at his side.

  “He gave me a fine send-off,” said Druss. “How are you, boy? You look tired.”

  “I am tired but all the better for seeing you.”

  Druss clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.

  “That Nogusha used a poisoned blade on me. I tell you, laddie, it hurt like hell. Caessa dressed me. I don’t know how she got me to my feet. Still … she did.”

  “I saw it,” said Rek.

  “Aye, a grand exit, was it not? That young lad Gilad fought well. I have not seen him yet, but I expect I shall. You’re a good boy, Rek. Worthy! It was good to know you.”

  “And you, Druss. I never met a better man.”

  “Of course you did, boy. Hundreds! But it’s nice of you to say it. However, I didn’t come here to exchange compliments. I know what you are facing, and I know tomorrow will be hard—damned hard. But don’t give ground. Do not retreat to the keep. Whatever happens, hold the wall. Much rests on it. Keep Joachim beside you; if he dies, you are finished. I must go. But remember. Hold the wall. Do not retreat to the keep.”

  “I will remember. Good-bye, Druss.”

  “Not good-bye. Not yet,” said Druss. “Soon.”

  The mist moved forward, enveloping the axman and sweeping over Rek. Then the moonlight faded, and dark desce
nded on the Earl of Bronze.

  Back in the keep Rek awoke. The fire still burned, and he was hungry again.

  In the kitchens Arshin was preparing breakfast. The old man was tired, but he brightened when Rek walked in.

  He liked the new earl and remembered when Virae’s father, Delnar, had been a young man, proud and strong. There seemed a similarity, but perhaps, Arshin thought, the long years had distorted his memory.

  He handed the earl some toasted bread and honey, which he wolfed down, following it with watered wine.

  Back in his quarters Rek buckled his armor into place and made his way to the battlements. Hogun and Orrin were already there, supervising the barricade within the gate tunnel.

  “This is the weak spot,” said Orrin. “We should retire to the keep. At least the gates will hold for some hours.”

  Rek shook his head. “We will stand on Geddon. There must be no retreat.”

  “Then we shall die here,” said Hogun. “For that barricade will hold them not at all.”

  “Perhaps,” said Rek. “We shall see. Good morning, Joachim Sathuli.”

  The bearded warrior nodded and smiled. “You slept well, Earl of Bronze?”

  “Well, indeed. I thank you for giving us this day of your time.”

  “It is nothing. The payment of a small debt.”

  “You owe me nothing. But I tell you this: If we survive this day, there shall be no more war between us. The rights to the high Delnoch passes are mine, though you dispute the rights of the Drenai to them. Therefore, before these witnesses, I give them to you.

  “There is also a scroll bearing my seal at the keep. When you leave tonight, you shall have it. A copy will go to Abalayn in Drenan.

  “I know that the gesture will have little meaning if the Nadir win through today, but it is all I can do.”

  Joachim bowed. “The gesture is enough in itself.”

  The talk ceased as the Nadir drums sounded and the warriors of Dros Delnoch spread out along the wall to receive the attackers. Rek lowered his helm visor and drew the sword of Egel. Below, in the barricaded gate tunnel, stood Orrin and one hundred warriors. The tunnel was only twenty feet wide at the center, and Orrin reckoned to hold it for the greater part of the morning. After that, with the barricades torn down, the sheer weight of the Nadir horde would push them back into the open ground behind the ramparts.