Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (7 page)

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes. Tell me about the walls again.”

“What about them?”

“How thick are they?”

“They are also up to sixty feet high, with jutting towers every fifty paces. Any army attacking the Dros would suffer fearful losses.”

“What about the gates?” he asked. “A wall is only as strong as the gate it shields.”

“The Earl of Bronze thought of that. Each gate is set behind an iron portcullis and built of layered bronze, iron, and oak. Beyond the gates are tunnels which narrow at the center before opening out onto the level between walls. You could hold the tunnels against an enormous number of men. The whole of the Dros was beautifully designed; it’s only the town which spoils it.”

“In what way?” he said.

“Originally Egel designed the gap between the walls to be a killing ground with no cover. It was uphill to the next wall, which would slow down the enemy. With enough bowmen you could have a massacre. It was good psychologically, too: By the time they came to take the next wall—if they ever did—they’d know there was more killing ground to come.”

“So how did the town spoil it?”

“It just grew. Now we have buildings all the way to Wall Six. The killing ground’s gone. Quite the opposite, in fact—now there’s cover all the way.”

He rolled over and kissed her brow.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“Does it have to be for something?”

“There’s a reason for everything,” she said.

He kissed her again. “That was for the Earl of Bronze,” he said. “Or the coming of spring. Or a vanished snowflake.”

“You don’t make any sense,” she told him.

“Why did you let me make love to you?” he asked.

“What sort of a question is that?”

“Why?”

“None of your damned business!” she said.

He laughed and kissed her again. “Yes, my lady. Quite right. None of my business.”

“You’re mocking me,” she said, struggling to rise.

“Nonsense,” he said, holding her down. “You’re beautiful.”

“I’m not. I never have been. You
are
mocking me.”

“I will never mock you. And you
are
beautiful. And the more I look at you, the more beautiful you are.”

“You’re a fool. Let me up.”

He kissed her again, easing his body close to hers. The kiss lingered, and she returned it.

“Tell me about the Dros again,” he said at last.

“I don’t want to talk about it now. You’re teasing me, Rek; I won’t have it. I don’t want to think about it tonight, not anymore. Do you believe in fate?”

“I do now. Almost.”

“I’m serious. Yesterday I didn’t mind about going home and facing the Nadir. I believed in the Drenai cause, and I was willing to die for it. I wasn’t scared yesterday.”

“And today?” he asked.

“Today, if you asked me, I wouldn’t go home.” She was lying, but she did not know why. A surge of fear welled in her as Rek closed his eyes and leaned back.

“Yes, you would,” he said. “You have to.”

“What about you?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said.

“What doesn’t?”

“I don’t believe in what I’m feeling. I never have. I am almost thirty years old, and I know the world.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about fate. Destiny. An old man in tattered blue robes without any eyes. I’m talking about love.”

“Love?”

He opened his eyes, reached out, and stroked her face.

“I can’t tell you what it meant to me when you stood beside me this morning. It was the highest point in my life. Nothing else mattered. I could see the sky—it was more blue than I’ve ever seen it. Everything was in sharp focus. I was more aware of living than I have ever been. Does that make any sense?”

“No,” she said gently. “Not really. Do you truly think I’m beautiful?”

“You are the most beautiful woman who ever wore armor,” he said, smiling.

“That’s no answer. Why am I beautiful?”

“Because I love you,” he said, surprised at the ease with which he could say it.

“Does that mean you’re coming with me to Dros Delnoch?”

“Tell me about those lovely high walls again,” he said.

5

T
he monastery grounds
were split into training areas, some of stone, some of grass, others of sand or treacherous slime-covered slate. The abbey itself stood at the center of the grounds, a converted keep of gray stone and crenellated battlements. Four walls and a moat surrounded the abbey, the walls a later addition of soft, golden sandstone. By the western wall, sheltered by glass and blooming out of season, were flowers of thirty different shades. All were roses.

The albino Serbitar knelt before his tree, his mind at one with the plant. He had struggled for thirteen years with the rose and understood it. There was empathy. There was harmony.

There was fragrance that pulsed for Serbitar alone. Greenflies upon the rose shriveled and died as Serbitar gazed upon them, and the soft silky beauty of the blooms filled his senses like an opiate.

It was a white rose.

Serbitar sat back, eyes closed, mentally following the surge of new life within the tree. He wore full armor of silver mail shirt, sword, and scabbard, leather leggings worked with silver rings; by his side was a new silver helm bearing the figure “1” in Elder runes. His white hair was braided. His eyes were green, the color of the rose leaves. His slender face, translucent skin over high cheekbones, had the mystic beauty of the consumptive.

He made his farewells, gently easing the gossamer panic of the plant. It had known him since its first leaf had opened.

And now he was to die.

A smiling face grew in his mind, and Serbitar sense-recognized Arbedark. We await you, pulsed the inner message.

I am coming, he answered.

Within the great hall a table had been set, a jug of water and a barley cake before each of thirty places. Thirty men in full armor sat silently as Serbitar entered, taking his place at the head of the table and bowing to the abbot, Vintar, who now sat on his right.

In silence the company ate, each thinking his own thoughts, each analyzing his emotions at this culmination of thirteen years of training.

Finally Serbitar spoke, fulfilling the ritual need of the order.

“Brothers, the search is upon us. We who have sought must obtain that which we seek. A messenger comes from Dros Delnoch to ask us to die. What does the heart of the Thirty feel on this matter?”

All eyes turned to black-bearded Arbedark. He relaxed his mind, allowing their emotions to wash over him, selecting thoughts, analyzing them, forging them into one unifying concept agreed on by all.

Then he spoke, his voice deep and resonant.

“The heart of the matter is that the children of the Drenai face extinction. Ulric has massed the Nadir tribes under his banner. The first attack on the Drenai empire will be at Dros Delnoch, which Earl Delnar has orders to hold until the autumn. Abalayn needs time to raise and train an army.

“We approach a frozen moment in the destiny of the continent. The heart says we should seek our truths at Dros Delnoch.”

Serbitar turned to Menahem, a hawk-nosed young man, dark and swarthy, his hair braided in a single ponytail intertwined with silver thread. “And how do the eyes of the Thirty view this thing?”

“Should we go to the Dros, the city will fall,” said Menahem. “Should we refuse, the city will still fall. Our presence will merely delay the inevitable. Should the messenger be worthy to ask of us our lives, then we should go.”

Serbitar turned to the abbot. “Vintar, how says the soul of the Thirty?”

The older man ran a slender hand through his thinning gray hair, then stood and bowed to Serbitar. He seemed out of place in his armor of silver and bronze.

“We will be asked to kill men of another race,” he said, his voice gentle, sad even. “We will be asked to kill them not because they are evil, merely because their leaders wish to do what the Drenai themselves did six centuries ago.

“We stand between the sea and the mountains. The sea will crush us against the mountain, and thus we die. The mountain will hold us against the sea, allowing us to be crushed. Still we die.

“We are all weapon masters here. We seek the perfect death to counterpoint the perfect life. True, the Nadir aggression does not pose a new concept in history. But their action will cause untold horror to the Drenai people. We can say that to defend those people we are upholding the values of our order. That our defense will fail is no reason to avoid the battle. For it is the motive that is pure, not the outcome.

“Sadly, the soul says we must ride for Dros Delnoch.”

“So,” said Serbitar. “We are agreed. I, too, feel strongly on this matter. We came to this temple as outcasts from the world. Shunned and feared, we came together to create the ultimate contradiction. Our bodies would become living weapons, to polarize our minds to extremes of pacifism. Warrior-priests we are, as the Elders never were. There will be no joy in our hearts as we slay the enemy, for we love all life.

“As we die, our souls will leap forward, transcending the world’s chains. All petty jealousies, intrigues, and hatreds will be left behind us as we journey to the Source.

“The voice says we ride.”

A three-quarter moon hung in the cloudless night sky, casting pale shadows from the trees around Rek’s campfire. A luckless rabbit, gutted and encased in clay, lay on the coals as Virae came back from the stream, wiping her naked upper body with one of Rek’s spare shirts.

“If only you knew how much that cost me!” he said as she sat on a rock by the fire, her body glowing gold as the flames danced.

“It never served a better purpose,” she said. “How much longer before that rabbit is ready?”

“Not long. You will catch your death of cold, sitting half-naked in this weather. My blood’s chilling to ice just watching you.”

“Strange!” she said. “Just this morning you were telling me how your blood ran hot just to look at me.”

“That was in a warm cabin with a bed handy. I’ve never been much for making love in the snow. Here, I’ve warmed a blanket.”

“When I was a child,” she said, taking the blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders, “we used to have to run three miles across the downs in the midwinter wearing only a tunic and sandals. That was bracing. And extremely cold.”

“If you’re so tough, how was it that you turned blue before we found the cabin?” he asked, a broad smile robbing the question of malice.

“The armor,” she said. “Too much steel, not enough wool beneath it. Mind you, if I had been riding in front, I wouldn’t have gotten so bored and fallen asleep. How long did you say that rabbit would be? I’m starving.”

“Soon. I think …”

“Have you ever cooked a rabbit this way before?” she asked.

“Not exactly. But it is the right way; I’ve seen it done. All the fur comes away as you crack the clay. It’s easy.”

Virae was not convinced. “I stalked that skinny beast for ages,” she said, recalling with pleasure the single arrow from forty paces that had downed it. “Not a bad bow, if a little on the light side. It’s an old cavalry bow, isn’t it? We have several at Delnoch. The modern ones are all silver steel now, better range and a stronger poundage. I’m starving.”

“Patience aids the appetite,” he told her.

“You’d better not ruin that rabbit. I don’t like killing the things at the best of times. But at least there’s a purpose if one can eat it.”

“I’m not sure how the rabbit would respond to that line of reasoning,” said Rek.

“Can they reason?” asked Virae.

“I don’t know. I didn’t mean it literally.”

“Then why say it? You are a strange man.”

“It was just an abstract thought. Do you never have an abstract thought? Do you never wonder how a flower knows when it’s time to grow? Or how the salmon find their way back to the spawning grounds?”

“No,” she said. “Is the rabbit cooked?”

“Well, what
do
you think about when you’re not planning how to kill people?”

“Eating,” she said. “What about that rabbit?”