“It is not quite so easy as you make it sound,” said Scaler, returning to the bed and sitting down. The sword twisted between his legs as he sat, and he straightened it.
“Don’t worry about it; you will think of something,” Pagan said, grinning. “When do you want to leave?”
“In about two years.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself, Scaler; it does no good. I know your mission is tough. Dros Delnoch is a city with six walls and a keep. More than seven thousand warriors are stationed there, and some fifty Joinings. But we will do what we can. Tenaka says you have a plan.”
Scaler chuckled. “That is good of him. He thought of it days ago and waited for me to catch up!”
“So tell me.”
“The Sathuli—they are a mountain and desert people, fierce and independent. For centuries they fought the Drenai over the rights to the Delnoch ranges. During the First Nadir War they aided my ancestor, the Earl of Bronze. In return he gave them the land. I don’t know how many there are—possibly ten thousand, maybe less. But Ceska has revoked the original treaty, and border skirmishes have begun again.”
“So, you will seek aid from the tribesmen?”
“Yes.”
“But without great hope of success?”
“That’s a fair comment. The Sathuli have always hated the Drenai, and there is no trust there. Worse than that, they loathe the Nadir. And even if they do help, how in hell’s name do I get them to leave the fortress?”
“One problem at a time, Scaler!”
Scaler stood up, and the sword twisted again, half tripping him; he pulled the scabbard from the belt and hurled it to the bed.
“One problem at a time? All right! Let us look at problems. I am no warrior, no swordsman. I have never been a soldier. I am frightened of battles and have never displayed much skill at tactics. I am not a leader and would be hard-pressed to get hungry men to follow me to a kitchen. Which of these problems shall we tackle first?”
“Sit down, boy,” said Pagan, leaning forward and resting his hands on the arms of the chair. Scaler sat, his anger ebbing from him. “Now listen to me! In my own land I am a king. I rose to the throne on blood and death, the first of my race to take the opal. When I was a young man and full of pride, an old priest came to me, telling me that I would burn in the fires of hell for my crimes. I ordered a regiment to build a fire from many trees. It could not be approached closer than thirty paces, and the flames beat against the vault of heaven. Then I ordered that regiment to put out the flames. Ten thousand men hurled themselves on the blaze, and the fire died. ‘If I go to hell,’ I told the priest, ‘my men will follow me and stamp out the flames.’ From the great Sea of Souls to the Mountains of the Moon, I ruled that kingdom. I survived poison in my wine cup and daggers at my back, false friends and noble enemies, treacherous sons and summer plagues. And yet I will follow you, Scaler.”
Scaler swallowed as he watched the lantern light dance on the ebony features of the man in the chair.
“Why? Why will you follow me?”
“Because the thing must be done. And now I am going to tell you a great truth, and if you are wise, you will take it to your heart. All men are stupid. They are full of fear and insecurity—it makes them weak. Always the other man seems stronger, more confident, more capable. It is a lie of the worst kind, for we lie to ourselves.
“Take yourself. When I came in here, I was your black friend, Pagan—big, strong, and friendly. But what am I now? Now am I not a savage king far above you? Do you not feel ashamed of having forced your tiny doubts upon me?”
Scaler nodded.
“And yet, am I a king? Did I truly command my regiment to stamp out a fire? How do you know? You do not! You listened to the voice of your inadequacy, and because you believed, you are in my power. If I draw my sword, you are dead!
“And again, when I look at you, I see a bright courageous young man, well built and in the prime of his manhood. You could be the prince of assassins, the deadliest warrior under the sun. You could be an emperor, a general, a poet …
“Not a leader, Scaler? Anyone can be a leader, because everyone wants to be led.”
“I am not a Tenaka Khan,” said Scaler. “I am not of the same breed.”
“Tell me that in a month. But from now on act the part. You will be amazed at the number of people you fool. Don’t share your doubts! Life is a game, Scaler. Play it like that.”
Scaler grinned. “Why not? But tell me, did you truly send your men into the fire?”
“You tell me,” said Pagan, his face hardening and his eyes glowing in the lamplight.
“No, you did not!”
Pagan grinned. “No! I will have the horses ready at dawn. I’ll see you then.”
“Make sure you pack plenty of honey cakes. Belder has a fondness for them.”
Pagan shook his head. “The old man is not coming. He is no good for you, and his spirit is gone. He stays behind.”
“If you follow me, then you do as I damn well say,” snapped Scaler. “Three horses and Belder travels with us!”
The black man’s eyebrows rose, and he spread his hands. “Very well.” He opened the door.
“How was that?” asked Scaler.
“Not bad for a start. I’ll see you in the morning.”
As Pagan returned to his room, his mood was somber. Lifting his huge pack to the bed, he spread out the weapons he would carry the next day: two hunting knives, sharp as razors; four throwing knives to be worn in baldric sheaths; a short sword, double-edged; and a double-headed hand ax he would strap to his saddle.
Stripping himself naked, he took a phial of oil from his pack and began to grease his body, rubbing hard at the bunched muscles of his shoulders. The damp western air was creeping into his bones.
His mind soared back over the years. He could still feel the heat of the blaze and hear the screams of his warriors as they raced into the flames …
Tenaka rode down from the mountain onto the slopes of the Vagrian plains. The sun rose over his left shoulder, and the clouds bunched above his head. He felt at peace with the breeze in his hair; though mountainous problems reared ahead of him, he felt light and free of burdens.
He wondered if his Nadir heritage had made him uneasy among city dwellers, with their high walls and shuttered windows. The breeze picked up, and Tenaka smiled.
Tomorrow death could flash toward him on an arrow point, but today … today was fine.
He pushed all thoughts of Skoda from his mind; those problems could be dealt with by Ananais and Rayvan. Scaler, too, was now his own man, riding for his own destiny. All Tenaka could do was fulfill his particular part in the tale.
His mind swam back to his childhood among the tribes. Spear, Wolfshead, Green Monkey, Grave Mountain, Soul Stealers. So many camps, so many territories.
Ulric’s tribe was acknowledged as the premier fighting men: the lords of the steppes, the bringers of war. Wolfshead they were, and their ferocity in war was legend. But who ruled the wolves now? Surely Jongir was dead.
Tenaka considered the contemporaries of his youth:
Knifespeaks, swift to anger and slow to forgive. Cunning, resourceful, and ambitious.
Abadai Truthtaker, devious and devout in the ways of the shaman.
Tsuboy, known as Saddleskull after he killed a raider and mounted the man’s skull on his saddle horn.
All these were grandsons of Jongir. All descended from Ulric.
Tenaka’s violet eyes grew bleak and cold as he brought the trio to mind. Each had showed his hatred of the half-breed.
Abadai had been the most vicious and had even resorted to poison during the Feast of the Long Knives. Only Shillat, Tenaka’s vigilant mother, had observed the placing of the powder in her son’s cup.
But none had challenged Tenaka directly, for even by the age of fourteen he had earned the name Bladedancer and was accomplished with every weapon of war.
And he sat for long night hours around the campfires,
listening to the old men as they remembered wars past, picking up details of strategy and tactics. At fifteen he knew every battle and skirmish in Wolfshead history.
Tenaka drew on the reins and stared at the distant Delnoch mountains.
Nadir we,
youth born,
ax wielders,
bloodletters,
victors still.
He laughed and dug his heels into his gelding’s flanks. The beast snorted and then broke into a full gallop across the plain, hooves drumming in the early-morning silence.
Tenaka let the horse run for several minutes before slowing it to a canter and then a trot. They had many miles to go, and though the beast was game, he did not wish to over-tire it.
By all the gods, it was good to be free of people! Even Renya.
She was beautiful and he loved her, but he was a man who needed solitude, freedom for his plans to form.
She had listened in silence when he had told her of his plan to travel alone. He had expected a bitter row, but she had offered none. Instead, she had embraced him and they had made love without passion but with great tenderness.
If he survived this insane venture, he would take her to his heart and his home. If he survived? He calculated the odds against success at hundreds to one, perhaps thousands. A sudden thought struck him. Was he a fool? He had Renya and a fortune waiting in Ventria. Why risk everything?
Did he love the Drenai? He pondered the question, knowing that he did not but wondering just what his feelings were. The people had never accepted him, even as a Dragon general. And the land, though beautiful, had nothing of the savage splendor of the steppes. So what were his feelings?
The death of Illae had unhinged him, coming so soon after the destruction of the Dragon. The shame he felt for spurning his friends had merged with the agony of Illae’s passing, and in some strange way he saw her death as a punishment for his failure to fulfill his duty. Only Ceska’s death—and his own—could wipe away the shame. But now it was different.
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
For 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, Ana
nais. 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.
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