Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (19 page)

Rayvan pushed herself to her feet, grunting as her rheumatic knee half gave way beneath her. She walked away down the slope to sit beside a ribbon stream that rushed over white pebbles glinting like pearls inches below the surface.

Burrowing in the pocket of her mail shirt, she found a hardcake biscuit. It had broken into three pieces against the iron rings.

She felt a fool.

What was she doing there? What did she know of war?

She had raised fine sons, and her husband had been a prince among men, big and gentle and soft as goose down. When the soldiers had cut him down, she had reacted in an instant. But from then on she had lived a lie, reveling in her new role as a warrior queen, making decisions, and directing an army. But it was all a sham, just like her claim to Druss’s line. Her head bowed, and she bit the knuckle of her thumb to stop the tears from flowing.

What are you, Rayvan? she asked herself.

A fat, middle-aged woman in a man’s mail shirt.

Tomorrow, or at most the day after, four hundred young men would die for her … their blood on her hands. Among them would be her surviving sons. Dipping her hands into the stream, she washed her face.

“Oh, Druss, what should I do? What would you do?”

There was no answer. Nor did she expect one. The dead were dead—no golden shades in ghostly palaces gazing fondly down on their descendants. There was no one to hear her cry for help, no living thing. Unless the stream itself and the pearl-like stones beneath could hear her, or the soft spring grass and the purple heather. She was alone.

In a way this had always been so. Her husband, Laska, had been a great comfort, and she had loved him well. But never with that all-consuming love she had dreamed about. He had been like a rock, a solid steadfast mountain of a man she could cling to when no others could see her. He had inner strength, and he didn’t mind when she lorded it over him in public and appeared to be making all the family decisions. In reality she listened to his advice in the quiet of their room and, more often than not, acted on it.

Now Laska was gone, and with him her other son, Geddis, and she sat alone in a ridiculous mail shirt. She gazed out at the mountains at the opening of the Demon’s Smile, picturing the dark-cloaked legion riders as they rode into the valley, remembering again the blow that had felled Laska. He had not expected an attack and had been sitting by the well talking to Geddis. There must have been two hundred Skoda men in the area, waiting for the cattle auction. She had not heard what passed between the officer and her husband, for she was thirty feet away, chopping meat for the barbecue. But she had seen the sword flash into the air and had watched the blade as it had cut deep. Then she had been running, the meat cleaver in her hand …

Now the legion was coming back for revenge not just on her but on the innocents of Skoda. Anger flickered inside her; they thought to ride into her mountains and stain the grass with the blood of her people!

Pushing herself to her feet, she slowly made her way back toward Tenaka Khan. He sat motionless, like a statue, watching her without emotion in those violet eyes. Then he rose. She blinked, for his movement was swift and fluid; one moment he was still, the next in motion. There was perfection in that movement, and it gave her confidence, though she could not imagine why.

“You have made a decision?” he asked.

“Yes. We will do as you advise. But I stay with the men in the center.”

“As you wish, Rayvan. I shall be at the mouth of the valley.”

“Is that wise?” she asked. “Is that not very dangerous for our general?”

“Ananais will take the center, Decado the right flank. I shall come back to cover the left. If I fall, Galand shall cover for me. Now I must seek Ananais, for I want his men working through the night.”

The leaders of the Thirty met together in a sheltered hollow on the eastern slopes of the Demon’s Smile. Below, in the bright moonlight, four hundred men were toiling, stripping turf and digging channels into the soft black earth beneath them.

The five priests sat in a tight circle, saying nothing as Acuas traveled, receiving reports from the ten warriors watching over the preparations. Acuas soared high into the night sky, reveling in the freedom of the air; there was no gravity here, no necessity for breath, no chains of muscle and bone. Here, above the world, his eyes could see forever and his ears could hear the sweet song of the solar winds. It was intoxicating, and his soul swelled with the extravagance of the beauty of the universe.

It was an effort to return to his duties, but Acuas was a man of discipline. He thought-flew to the outer scouts holding the shield against the Templars and felt the malice beyond the barrier.

“How goes it, Oward?” he pulsed.

“It is hard, Acuas. They are growing in strength all the time. We will not be able to hold them for much longer.”

“It is imperative the Templars do not see the preparations.”

“We are almost at our limits, Acuas. Much more and they will be through. Then the deaths will begin.”

“I know. Hold them!”

Acuas sped down and on past the mouth of the valley to where the legion was camped. Hovering there was the warrior Astin.

“Greetings, Acuas!”

“Greetings. Any change?”

“I don’t believe so, Acuas, but the Templars have now closed us off, and I can no longer intercept the leader’s thoughts. But he is confident. He does not expect serious opposition.”

“Have the Templars tried to get through to you?”

“Not as yet. The shield holds. How fare Oward and the others?”

“They are being pushed to the limit. Do not wait too long, Astin. I do not want to see you cut off.”

“Acuas,” Astin pulsed as the other made to leave.

“Yes?”

“The men we escorted from the city …”

“Yes?”

“They have all been slain by the legion. It was ghastly.”

“I feared it would be so.”

“Are we responsible for their deaths?”

“I don’t know, my friend; I fear so. Be careful.”

Acuas returned to his body and opened his eyes. He outlined the situation to the others and waited for Decado to speak.

“There is no more we can do,” said Decado. “It is set. It will be dawn in less than three hours, and the legion will strike. As you know, Tenaka requires five of us to join his forces. The choice of men I will leave to you, Acuas. The rest of us will stand with Ananais at the center. The woman Rayvan will be with us; Ananais wishes her protected at all costs.”

“No easy task,” said Balan.

“I didn’t say it was easy,” answered Decado. “Merely to try. Psychologically she is vital, for the Skoda men fight for her as well as for the land.”

“I understand that, Decado,” said Balan smoothly. “But we can guarantee nothing. We will be on open ground with no horses and nowhere to run.”

“Do you imply criticism of Tenaka’s plan?” asked Abaddon.

“No,” said Balan. “We are all students of war here, and tactically his battle strategy is sound—technically brilliant, in fact. However, at best it has a thirty percent chance of success.”

“Sixty,” said Decado.

Balan lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Explain.”

“I accept that you have skills beyond ordinary men. I accept also that your understanding of strategy is exceptional. But beware of pride, Balan.”

“In what way?” asked Balan, the hint of a sneer on his face.

“Because your training has been merely that—training. If we mapped out the battle as a game of chance, then thirty percent would be correct. But this is not a game. Down there you have Ananais, the Golden One. His strength is great, and his skill greater. But more than this he has a power over men that comes close to your own psychic talents. Where he stands, others will stand; he holds them with the power of his will. It is what makes him a leader. Any estimate of success in such a scheme will depend on the willingness of the line to hold, and the men to die. They may be beaten and slain, but they will not run.

“Add to this the speed of thought of Tenaka Khan. Like Ananais he has great skill, and his understanding of strategy is beyond compare. But his timing is immaculate. He does not have Ananais’ leadership qualities, but only because of his mixed blood. Men of the Drenai will think twice before following a Nadir.

“Lastly there is the woman Rayvan. Her men will fight the stronger because she is with them. Revise your estimate, Balan.”

“I will reconsider, adjusting the points to incorporate your suggestions,” said the priest.

Decado nodded and then turned to Acuas. “How far away are the Templars?”

“They will not arrive for tomorrow’s battle, thank the Source! There are a hundred of them two days ride from here. The rest are in Drenan while the leaders, the Six, meet with Ceska.”

“Then that is a problem for another day,” said Decado. “I think I will rest now.”

Dark-eyed Katan spoke for the first time. “Will you not lead us in prayer, Decado?”

Decado smiled gently. There was no hint of criticism from the young priest.

“No, Katan. You are closer to the Source than I, and you are the soul of the Thirty. You pray.”

Katan bowed, and the group of men closed their eyes in silent communion. Decado relaxed his mind, listening for the faint sea roar. He drifted until the “voice” of Katan grew and he floated toward it. The prayer was short and perfect in its sincerity, and Decado was touched to hear the young priest mention him by name, calling on the lord of the heavens to protect him.

Later, as Decado lay staring up at the stars, Abaddon came and sat beside him. The slim warrior sat up and stretched his back.

“Are you looking forward to tomorrow?” the abbot asked.

“I am afraid that I am.”

The old man leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes. He looked tired, drained of all strength; the lines on his face—once as delicate as web threads—now seemed chiseled deep.

“I have compromised you, Decado,” whispered the abbot. “I have drawn you into a world you would not otherwise have seen. I have prayed about you constantly. It would be pleasant to know I was right. But that is not to be.”

“I cannot help you, Abaddon.”

“I know that. Every day I watched you in your garden, and I wondered. In truth, it was more hope than certainty. We are not a true Thirty—we never were. The order was disbanded in my father’s day, but I felt—in my arrogance—that the world had need of us. So I scoured the continent, seeking out those children of special gifts. I did my best to teach them, praying the Source would guide me.”

“Perhaps you were right,” said Decado softly.

“I don’t know anymore. I have watched them all tonight, joined them in their thoughts. Where there should be tranquillity there is excitement and even a lust for battle. It began when you killed Padaxes and they joyed in your victory.”

“What did you expect of them? There is not a man among them over twenty-five years of age! And they have never lived ordinary lives … been drunk … kissed a woman. Their humanity has been suppressed.”

“Think you so? I would prefer to think their humanity has been enhanced.”

“I am out of my depth in this conversation,” admitted Decado. “I don’t know what you expect from them. They will die for you. Is that not enough?”

“No. Not by far. This grimy little war is meaningless against the vast scope of human endeavor. Don’t you think these mountains have seen it all before? Does it matter that we may all die tomorrow? Will the world spin any less fast? Will the stars shine any more brightly? In a hundred years not a man here today will still be alive. Will that matter? Many years ago Druss the Legend stood and died on the walls of Dros Delnoch to stop a Nadir invasion. Does that matter now?”

“It mattered to Druss. It matters to me.”

“But why?”

“Because I am a man, priest. Simply that. I don’t know if the Source exists, and I don’t really care. All I have is myself and my own self-respect.”

“There must be more. There must be the triumph of light. Man is so beset by greed, lust, and the pursuit of the ephemeral. But kindness, understanding, and love are equally parts of humanity.”

“Are you now saying we should love the legion?”

“Yes. And we must fight them.”

“That is too deep for me,” said Decado.

“I know. But I hope one day you will understand. I shall not be there to see it. Yet I pray for it.”

“Now you are getting morbid. That happens on the eve of a battle.”

“I am not morbid, Decado. Tomorrow is my last day on this earth. I know it. I have seen it. It doesn’t matter … I just hoped that tonight you could convince me that I was right, at least with you.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“There is nothing you
can
say.”

“Then I cannot help you. You know what my life was before I met you. I was a killer, and I reveled in death. I do not wish to sound weak, but I never asked to be that way—it was just me. I had neither the strength nor the inclination to change. You understand? But then I almost killed a man I loved. And I came to you. You gave me a place to hide, and I was grateful. Now I am back where I belong, with a sword near to hand and an enemy close by.

“I don’t deny the Source. I just don’t know what game he is playing, why he allows the Ceskas of this world to survive. I don’t want to know. While my arm is strong I shall oppose Ceska’s evil, and at the end of all things if the Source says to me, ‘Decado, you do not deserve immortality,’ then I shall reply, ‘So be it.’ There will be no regrets.

“You could be right. You might die tomorrow. If the rest of us survive, I shall look after your young warriors. I shall try to keep them to your path. I think they will not let you down. But then you will be with your Source, and you must ask him to lend a hand.”

“And what if I was wrong?” asked the abbot, leaning forward and gripping Decado’s arm. “What if I resurrected the Thirty because of my own arrogance?”

“I don’t know, Abaddon. But you acted in faith with no thought of gain. Even if you are wrong, your god should forgive you. If he does not, then he is not worth following. If one of your priests commits an indiscretion, do you not forgive him? Are you then more forgiving than your god?”