Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate

by David Gemmell

  The sword fell from Saddleskull’s hand, and his legs gave way. He struggled to rise, but death pulled him down into the pit. Tenaka recovered the helm and replaced the sword in the coffin.

  Slowly he climbed the stairs, squeezing past the blades jutting from the panels. Once into the open air, he sat back, cradling the helm in his lap. It was bronze, edged with white fur and decorated with silver thread.

  Far below Asta Khan sat watching the moon, and Tenaka climbed down to him. The old man did not look around as he approached.

  “Welcome, Tenaka Khan, Lord of Hosts!” he said.

  “Take me home,” ordered Tenaka.

  “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “There is someone you must meet.” A white mist billowed from the ground, swirling around them; from its depths strode a powerful figure.

  “You did well,” said Ulric.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Do you mean to keep your word to your friends?”

  “I do.”

  “So the Nadir will ride to the aid of the Drenai?”

  “They will.”

  “It is as it should be. A man must stand by his friends. But you know that the Drenai must fall before you. As long as they survive, the Nadir cannot prosper.”

  “I know this.”

  “And you are prepared to conquer them … end their empire?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Follow me into the mist.”

  Tenaka did as he was bidden, and the khan led him to the banks of a dark river. There sat an old man who turned as Tenaka approached. It was Aulin, the former Source priest who had died in the Dragon barracks.

  “Were you true to your word?” he asked. “Did you look after Renya?”

  “I did.”

  “Then sit beside me, and I shall be true to my word.”

  Tenaka sat, and the old man leaned back, watching the dark water bubble and flow.

  “I discovered many machines of the Elders. I scanned their books and notes. I experimented. I learned many of their secrets. They knew the fall was imminent, and they left many clues for future generations. The world is a ball; did you know that?”

  “No,” said Tenaka.

  “Well, it is. At the top of the ball is a world of ice. And at the base, another. Around the center it is hellishly hot. And the ball spins around the sun. Did you know that?”

  “Aulin, I have no time for this. What do you wish to tell me?”

  “Please, warrior, listen to me. I so wanted this knowledge shared. It is important to me.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “The world spins, and the ice at the poles of the world grows daily: millions of tons of ice, every day for thousands of years. At last the ball begins to wobble as it spins, and then it tips. And as it tips, the oceans rise up and cover the land. And the ice spreads to cover whole continents. That is the fall. That is what happened to the Elders. Do you see? It makes the dreams of men nonsense.”

  “I see. Now what can you tell me?”

  “The machines of the Elders—they do not operate as Ceska thinks. There is no physical joining of beasts and men. Rather is it a harnessing of vital forces, held in delicate balance. The Elders knew it was important—vital—to allow the spirit of man to remain in the ascendant. The horror of the Joinings is the result of allowing the beast to emerge.”

  “How does this help me?” asked Tenaka.

  “I saw a Joining revert once; it became a man again and died.”

  “How?”

  “When it saw something that jolted it.”

  “What did it see?”

  “The woman who had been its wife.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. Is that helpful?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tenaka. “It may be.”

  “Then I shall leave you,” said Aulin. “I shall return to the gray.”

  Tenaka watched him shuffle away into the mist. Then he stood and turned as Ulric stepped forward.

  “The war has already begun,” said the khan. “You will not arrive in time to save your friends.”

  “Then I shall be in time to avenge them,” answered Tenaka.

  “What was the old man trying to tell you about the fall?”

  “I don’t know—something about ice spinning. It wasn’t important,” said Tenaka.

  The old shaman bade Tenaka sit down, and the new khan obeyed. His eyes closed. When he opened them, he was sitting before the tomb as before, watched by the massed ranks of Nadir generals. To his left lay Shirrat Knifespeaks, his chest ripped apart, blood staining the dust. To his right was Saddleskull, a small trickle of blood on his temple. Before him was the helm of Ulric.

  Asta Khan stood and turned to the generals.

  “It is over, and it has begun. Tenaka Khan rules the Wolves.”

  The old man took the helm, returned to the brazier, swept up his cloak of ragged skins, and walked from the camp. Tenaka remained where he was, scanning the faces before him and sensing the hostility. These were men prepared for war, supporters of Knifespeaks or Saddleskull. Not one man among them had considered Tenaka as khan. Now they had a new leader, and from this moment on Tenaka would need to walk with extreme care. His food would have to be tasted, his tent guarded. Among the men before him would be many who would desire his death.

  And swiftly!

  It was easy to become a khan. The real trick lay in staying alive thereafter.

  A movement in the ranks caught his eye, and Ingis rose and walked toward him. Taking his sword from its scabbard and reversing the blade, he handed it hilt first to Tenaka.

  “I become your man,” said Ingis, kneeling.

  “Welcome, warrior. How many brothers do you bring?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “It is good,” said the khan.

  And one by one the generals trooped forward. It was dawn before the last backed away and Ingis approached once more.

  “The families of Saddleskull and Knifespeaks have been taken. They are being held near your campsite.”

  Tenaka rose and stretched. He was cold and very tired. With Ingis beside him, he walked from the tomb.

  A great crowd had assembled to watch the deaths of the prisoners. Tenaka looked at the captives as they knelt in silent ranks, their arms tied behind them. There were twenty-two women, six men, and a dozen boy children.

  Subodai came forward. “You wish to kill them yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Gitasi and I will do it, then,” he said with relish.

  “No.” Tenaka walked on, leaving Subodai baffled and surprised.

  The new khan halted before the women, the wives of the dead warlords.

  “I did not kill your husbands,” he told them. “There was no blood feud between us. Yet I inherit their property. So be it! You were part of that property, and I name you as wives of Tenaka Khan. Release them!” he ordered.

  Muttering under his breath, Subodai moved along the line. A young woman ran forward as he freed her and threw herself at Tenaka’s feet.

  “If I am truly your wife, then what of my son?”

  “Release the children also,” said Tenaka.

  Only the six men remained now, close relatives of the dead warlords.

  “This is a new day,” Tenaka told them. “I give you this choice. Promise you serve me and you live. Refuse and you die!”

  “I spit on you, half-blood,” shouted one man. Tenaka stepped forward, held out his hand for Subodai’s sword, and with one sweep severed the man’s neck.

  Not one of the five remaining prisoners spoke, and Tenaka moved along the line, killing them all. He called Ingis to him, and the two men sat quietly in the shadows of the tent.

  There they stayed for three hours while the khan outlined his plans. Then Tenaka slept.

  And while he slept twenty men ringed his tent, swords in hand.

  20

  Parsal continued to crawl, dragging himself through the long grass. The pain f
rom his mutilated leg had faded from the searing agony of the previous afternoon to a throbbing ache that occasionally flared, causing him to lose consciousness. The night was cool, but Parsal was sweating freely. He no longer knew where he was going, only that he had to put as great a distance between himself and the horror as he could.

  He crawled over an area of earth pitted with pebbles, and a sharp stone dug into his leg. Groaning, he rolled over.

  Ananais had told them to hold on for as long as they could, then to draw back and make for Magadon. He had then gone to another valley with Galand. The events of the afternoon kept flooding Parsal’s mind, and he could not push them away … With four hundred men he had waited in a tiny pass. The cavalry had come first, thundering up the incline with lances leveled. Parsal’s archers had cut them to pieces. The infantry was harder to repel, well armored and with round bronze shields held high. Parsal had never been the swordsman his brother was, but by all the gods, he had given a good account of himself!

  The Skoda men had fought like tigers, and Ceska’s infantry had been forced back. That was the point when he should have ordered his men to withdraw.

  Foolish, foolish man!

  But he had been so uplifted. So proud! Never in his life had he led a fighting force. He had been turned down for the Dragon, while his brother had been accepted. Now he had repelled a mighty enemy.

  And he waited for one more attack.

  The Joinings had surged forward like demons of the pit. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget that charge. The beasts sent up a terrifying wall of sound, howling their blood lust as they ran. Giant monsters with slavering maws and blood-red eyes, sharp talons, and bright, bright swords.

  Arrows scarcely pierced their flesh, and they swept aside the fighting men of Skoda as a grown man scattered unruly children.

  Parsal gave no order to run; it was unnecessary. The Skoda courage vanished like water on sand, and the force scattered. In his anguish Parsal ran at a Joining, aiming a mighty blow for the beast’s head, but his sword bounced from the thick skull and the creature turned on him. Parsal was thrown back, and the Joining dived, its great jaws closing on Parsal’s left leg and ripping the flesh from the bone. A gallant Skoda fighter leapt to the beast’s back, driving a long dagger into its neck; it turned away from Parsal to rip the throat from the warrior. Parsal rolled clear over a rise and tumbled down and down into the valley. And so his long crawl began.

  He knew now that there was no victory for the Skoda men. Their dreams were folly. Nothing could stand against the Joinings. He wished he had stayed on his farm in Vagria, far away from this insane war.

  Something seized his leg, and he sat up, waving a dagger. A taloned arm smashed it from his grip, and three Joinings squatted around him, their eyes gleaming, saliva dripping from open maws.

  Mercifully he blacked out.

  And the feeding began.

  Pagan edged forward until he was less than a hundred yards from the western quarter of the city. His horse was hidden in the woods behind him. Smoke from the burning buildings was swirling like mist, and it was hard to see for any distance. Bodies were being dragged from the city by groups of Joinings, and the feast started in the meadows beyond. Pagan had never seen the beasts before, and he watched them in grim fascination. Most were over seven feet tall and mightily muscled.

  Pagan was at a loss. He had a message for Ananais from Scaler, but where would he now deliver it? Was the dark-masked warrior still alive? Was the war over? If it was, then Pagan must change his plan. He had sworn to kill Ceska, and he was not a man to take an oath lightly. Somewhere among this army was the tent of the emperor. All he had to do was find it and gut the son of a whore.

  That was all!

  The deaths of Pagan’s people weighed heavily on him, and he was determined to avenge them. Once he killed Ceska, the emperor’s shade would be consigned to the land of shadow to serve the slain. A fitting punishment.

  Pagan watched the beasts feed for a while, noting their movements and learning all he could against the day when he must fight them. He was under no illusion; the day would come. Man against beast, head to head. The beast might be strong, swift, and deadly. But then, Kataskicana the king had earned the title “lord of war.” For he too was strong, swift, and deadly. But added to this, he was cunning.

  Pagan eased his way back into the woods. Once there he froze, his wide nostrils flaring. His eyes narrowed, and he slid his ax into his hand.

  His horse was standing where he had left it, but the beast was quivering in fear, its ears flat against its skull and its eyes wide.

  Pagan delved into his leather tunic, pulling clear a short, heavy throwing knife. Licking his lips, he scanned the undergrowth. Hiding places close by were few; he was in one such, which left three other obvious places. So, he reasoned, he was facing a maximum of three opponents. Did they have bows? Unlikely, for they would have to stand, draw, and loose at a swiftly moving target. Were they human? Unlikely, for the horse was terrified and mere men would not create such fear.

  So, then: a possible three Joinings crouched in the bushes ahead of him.

  His decision made, Pagan stood up and walked toward his horse.

  A Joining leapt from the bushes to his right, and another rose from the left. They moved with incredible speed. Pagan spun on his heel, his right arm flashing down; the knife plunged into the right eye socket of the first beast. The second was almost upon him when the black man dropped to his knees and dived forward, crashing into the creature’s legs. The Joining pitched over him, and Pagan rolled, lashing the ax blade deep into the beast’s thigh. Then he was up and running. He tore the reins clear of the branches and vaulted to the saddle as the Joining ran at him. As Pagan leaned back in the saddle, tugging on the reins, the horse reared in terror, its hooves lashing at the beast and catching it full in the face. The Joining went down, and Pagan heeled away his horse through the woods, ducking under overhanging branches. Once clear, he galloped to the west.

  The gods had been with him, for he had seriously miscalculated. Had there been three Joinings, he would have been dead. He had aimed the knife for the beast’s throat, but so swift had been its charge that he had almost missed the target altogether.

  Pagan slowed his horse as the burning city fell away behind him.

  All over the lowlands would be the scouts of Ceska. He had no wish to gallop into a greater danger than that from which he had fled. He patted the horse’s neck.

  He had left Scaler with the Cheiam. The new Earl of Bronze had grown in stature, and his plans for taking the fortress were well advanced. Whether they would work was another matter, but at least Scaler was tackling them with confidence. Pagan chuckled. The young Drenai was more than convincing in his new role, and Pagan could almost believe that he really was the legendary earl.

  Almost. Pagan chuckled again.

  Toward dusk he moved into a section of trees near a stream. He had seen no sign of the enemy, and he scouted the area carefully. But a surprise lay in wait for him as he rode into a small hollow.

  Some twenty children were seated around the body of a man.

  Pagan dismounted and tethered his horse. A tall boy stepped forward, a dagger in his hand.

  “Touch him and I will kill you!” said the boy.

  “I will not touch him,” said Pagan. “Put up the knife.”

  “Are you a Joining?”

  “No, I am merely a man.”

  “You don’t look like a man—you’re black.”

  Pagan nodded solemnly. “Indeed I am. You, on the other hand, are white and very small. I don’t doubt your bravery, but do you really think you can stand against me?”

  The boy licked his lips, but stood his ground.

  “If I was your enemy, boy, I would have killed you by now. Stand aside.” He walked forward, ignoring the lad as he knelt by the body. The dead man was thickset and balding, his large hands locked on his jerkin.

  “What happened?” Pagan asked a
little girl sitting closest to the body. She looked away, and the boy with the knife spoke.

  “He brought us here yesterday. He said we could hide until the beasts went away. But this morning as he was playing with Melissa, he clutched his chest and fell.”

  “It wasn’t me,” said Melissa. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Pagan ruffled the child’s mousy blond hair. “Of course you didn’t. Did you bring food with you?”

  “Yes,” answered the boy. “It’s over there in the cave.”

  “My name is Pagan, and I am a friend of Darkmask.”

  “Will you look after us?” asked Melissa.

  Pagan smiled at her, then stood and stretched. The Joinings would be on the loose now, and he had no chance of avoiding them on foot with twenty children in tow. He strode to the top of a nearby hill, shading his eyes to view the mountains. It would take them at least two days to walk that distance, two days out in the open. He turned to see the boy with the knife sitting on a rock behind him. He was tall and about eleven years of age.

  “You didn’t answer Melissa’s question,” said the boy.

  “What is your name, lad?”

  “Ceorl. Will you help us?”

  “I don’t know that I can,” answered Pagan.

  “I cannot do it all by myself,” said Ceorl, his gray eyes locked on Pagan’s face.

  Pagan sat down on the grass. “Try to understand, Ceorl. There is virtually no way that we can make it to the mountains. The Joinings are like beasts of the jungle. They track by scent; they move fast and range wide. I have a message to deliver to Darkmask; I am involved in the war. I have my own mission and have sworn to see it through.”

  “Excuses!” said Ceorl. “Always excuses. Well, I will get them there—trust me.”

  “I will stay with you for a little while,” said Pagan. “But be warned: I don’t much like children chattering around me—it makes me irritable.”

  “You can’t stop Melissa chattering. She is very young and very frightened.”

  “And you are not frightened?”

  “I am a man,” said Ceorl. “I gave up crying years ago.”