Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (36 page)

Tenaka blinked as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. The torches had not sprung up instantly. They had been alight all the time, only he had been blind.

“Let me show you something, Tenaka,” said Asta Khan, leading him from the cavern. “This is the path you took to reach me.”

Directly ahead was a yawning chasm crossed by a slender stone bridge.

“You walked that bridge in blindness. And so, yes, you were summoned. Follow me!”

The ancient shaman took him back over the bridge to a small room close to the main cave entrance. There the two men sat on a goatskin rug.

“What would you have me do?” asked Asta Khan.

“Initiate the shaman quest.”

“Saddleskull has no need of the quest. He outnumbers his enemy and can win it by battle alone.”

“Thousands of brothers will die.”

“That is the Nadir way, Tenaka.”

“The shaman quest would mean the deaths of only two,” said Tenaka.

“Speak plainly, young man! Without the quest you have no chance to rule. With it your chances rise to one in three. Do you truly care about a civil war?”

“I do. I have the dream of Ulric. I want to build the nation.”

“And what of your Drenai friends?”

“They are still my friends.”

“I am no fool, Tenaka Khan. I have lived many, many years, and I can read the hearts of men. Give me your hand and let me read your heart. But know this: If there is deceit in you, I shall kill you.”

Tenaka held out his hand, and the old man took it.

For several minutes they remained thus, then Asta Khan released him.

“The power of the shaman is maintained in many ways. There is generally very little direct manipulation of tribal directions. You understand?”

“I do.”

“On this occasion I will grant your request. But when Saddleskull hears, he will send his executioner. There will be a challenge—it is all he can do.”

“I understand.”

“Do you wish to know of him?”

“No. It is immaterial.”

“You are confident.”

“I am Tenaka Khan.”

The Valley of the Tomb stretched between two ranges of iron-gray mountains; they were known as the Ranks of Giants, and Ulric himself had named this place as his burial ground. It amused the great warlord to think of these ageless sentries standing guard over his mortal remains. The tomb itself was built of sandstone covered with marble. Forty thousand slaves had died building this monolith, shaped like the crown Ulric never wore. Six pointed towers ringed the white dome, and giant runes were carved on every surface, telling the world and all succeeding generations that here lay Ulric the Conqueror, the greatest Nadir warlord of them all.

And yet, typically, Ulric’s humor came through even this corpse-white colossus. The only carving to show the khan depicted him riding his pony and wearing the crown of kings. Set sixty feet above the ground and back beyond a curving gateway, the statue was meant to depict Ulric waiting beyond the walls of Dros Delnoch, his only defeat. On his head was the crown, placed there by Ventrian sculptors who did not realize that a man could command an army of millions without being a king. This was a subtle jest but one that Ulric would have enjoyed.

To the east and west of the tomb camped the armies of the two enemy kinsmen: Shirrat Knifespeaks and Tsuboy Saddleskull. More than 150,000 men waited for the outcome of the shaman quest.

Tenaka led his people down into the valley. Ramrod-straight on his Drenai stallion he rode, and beside him Gitasi felt a surge of pride. He was Notas no longer; he was a man again.

Tenaka Khan rode to a point south of the tomb and dismounted. Word of his coming had spread to both camps, and hundreds of warriors began to drift toward his campsite.

The women of Gitasi busied themselves erecting the tents while the men attended to their ponies and settled themselves down around Tenaka Khan. He sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at the great tomb, his eyes distant and his mind closed to the drifters.

A shadow fell across him. He waited for long seconds, letting the insult build, then smoothly rose to his feet. This moment had to come; it was the opening move in a none too subtle game.

“You are the half-blood?” asked the man. He was young, in his middle twenties, and tall for a Nadir. Tenaka Khan looked at him coolly, noting the balanced stance, the slim hips and wide shoulders, the powerful arms, and the depth of chest. The man was a swordsman, and confidence blazed from him. He would be the executioner.

“And who would you be, child?” said Tenaka Khan.

“I am a trueborn Nadir warrior, the son of a Nadir warrior. It galls me that a mongrel should stand before the tomb of Ulric.”

“Then move away and continue your yapping elsewhere,” said Tenaka Khan.

The man smiled. “Let us cease this nonsense,” he said smoothly. “I am here to kill you. It is obvious. Let us begin.”

“You are very young to wish for death,” said Tenaka. “And I am not old enough to refuse you. What is your name?”

“Purtsai. Why do you wish to know it?”

“If I have to kill a brother, I like to know his name. It means that someone will remember him. Draw your sword, child.”

The crowd drew back, forming a giant circle around the combatants. Purtsai drew a curved saber and a dagger. Tenaka Khan drew his own short sword and deftly caught the knife Subodai tossed to him.

And so the duel began.

Purtsai was good, skilled beyond the vast majority of tribesmen. His footwork was extraordinary, and he had a suppleness unseen among the squat, bulky warriors of the Nadir. His speed was dazzling, and his nerve cool.

He was dead within two minutes.

Subodai swaggered forward and stood with hands on hips, staring down at the body. He kicked it savagely, then spit on it. Then he grinned at the watching warriors and spit again. Tucking his toe under the body, he flipped the corpse onto its back.

“This was the best of you?” he asked the crowd. He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Whatever will become of you?”

Tenaka Khan walked to his tent and ducked under the flap. Inside Ingis was waiting, seated cross-legged on a fur rug and drinking a goblet of Nyis, a spirit distilled from goats’ milk. Tenaka seated himself opposite the warlord.

“That did not take you long,” said Ingis.

“He was young, with much to learn.”

Ingis nodded. “I advised Saddleskull against sending him.”

“He had no choice.”

“No. So … you are here.”

“Did you doubt it?”

Ingis shook his head. He removed his bronze helm and scratched at the skin beneath his thinning iron-gray hair. “The question is, Bladedancer, what am I to do about you?”

“Does it trouble you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I am trapped. I want to support you, for I believe you are the future. Yet I cannot, for I have sworn to uphold Saddleskull.”

“A thorny problem,” agreed Tenaka Khan, helping himself to a goblet of Nyis.

“What shall I do?” asked Ingis, and Tenaka Khan stared at his strong honest face. He had only to ask and the man was his: He would break his oath to Saddleskull and pledge his warriors to Tenaka instead. Tenaka was tempted, but he resisted with ease. Ingis would not be the same man if he broke his oath, for it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Tonight,” said Tenaka, “the shaman quest begins. Those who stand for leadership will be tested, and Asta Khan will name the warlord. That is the man you are pledged to follow. Until that time you are bound to Saddleskull.”

“And what if he commands that I kill you?”

“Then you must kill me, Ingis.”

“We are all fools,” said the Nadir general bitterly. “Honor? What does Saddleskull know of honor? I curse the day I swore to serve him!”

“Go now. Put these thoughts from your mind,” ordered Tenaka Khan. “A man makes mistakes, but he lives by them. Foolish it may be on occasion. But in the main it is the only way to live. We are what we say only so long as our words are iron.”

Ingis rose and bowed. After he had gone, Tenaka refilled his goblet and leaned back on the thick cushions scattered around the rug.

“Come out, Renya!” he called. She stepped from the shadows of the sleeping section and sat beside him, taking his hand.

“I feared for you when the warrior made his challenge.”

“My time is not yet.”

“He would have answered the same,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but he was wrong.”

“And have you so changed? Are you now infallible?”

“I am home, Renya. I feel different. I cannot explain it, and I have not yet tried to rationalize it. But it is wonderful. Before I came here I was incomplete. Lonely. Here I am whole.”

“I see.”

“No, I do not think that you do. You think I criticize you; you hear me talking of loneliness, and you wonder. Do not misunderstand me. I love you, and you have been a source of constant joy. But my purpose was not clear, and therefore I was what the shamans called me as a child: the Prince of Shadows. I was a shadow in the world of stone reality. Now I am a shadow no longer. I have a purpose.”

“You want to be a king,” she said sadly.

“Yes.”

“You want to conquer the world.”

He did not answer.

“You have seen Ceska’s terror and the folly of ambition. You have seen the horror that war brings. Now you will bring a greater horror than Ceska could ever dream of.”

“It does not have to be horror.”

“Do not fool yourself, Tenaka Khan. You have merely to look beyond this tent. They are savages—they live to fight … to kill. I don’t know why I’m talking like this. You are beyond my words. After all, I am just a woman.”

“You are my woman.”

“I was. Not any longer. You have another woman now. Her breasts are mountains, and her seed waits out there to spill across the world. What a hero you are, great khan! Your friend is waiting for you. In the blindness of his loyalty he expects to see you riding on a white horse at the head of your Nadir. Then the evil will fall, and the Drenai will be free. Imagine his surprise when you rape his nation!”

“You have said enough, Renya. I will not betray Ananais. I will not invade the Drenai.”

“Not now, maybe. But one day you will have no choice. There won’t be anywhere else.”

“I am not yet the khan.”

“Do you believe in prayer, Tenaka?” she asked suddenly, tears in her eyes.

“Sometimes.”

“Then think on this: I pray that you lose tonight, even if it means your death.”

“If I lose, it will,” said Tenaka Khan.

But she had already moved away from him.

The ancient shaman squatted in the dust, staring intently into a brazier of coals on an iron stand. Around him sat the chieftains of the Nadir, the warlords, the masters of the horde.

Away from the crowd, within a circle of stones, sat the three kinsmen: Tsuboy Saddleskull, Shirrat Knifespeaks, and Tenaka Khan.

The warlords studied each other with rare interest. Saddleskull was a blocky, powerful figure with a braided topknot and a wispy forked beard. He was stripped to the waist, and his body gleamed with oil.

Knifespeaks was slimmer, and his long hair, streaked with silver, was tied at the nape of the neck. His face was oblong, accentuated by the drooping mustache, and mournful. But his eyes were sharp and alert.

Tenaka Khan sat quietly with them, staring up at the tomb, which was shining silver in the moonlight. Saddleskull cracked his fingers noisily and tensed the muscles of his back. He was nervous. He had planned for years to take control of the Wolves. And now, with his army stronger than his brother’s, he was forced to gamble his future on a single throw. Such was the power of the shamans. He had tried to ignore Asta Khan, but even his own warlords—respected warriors like Ingis—had urged him to seek their wisdom. No one wanted to see Wolf rend Wolf. But what a time for Tenaka the Mongrel to come home. Saddleskull cursed inwardly.

Asta Khan pushed himself to his feet. The shaman was old, older than any man living among the tribes, and his wisdom was legend. He moved slowly around to stand before the trio; he knew them well—as he had known their fathers and grandfathers—and he could see the resemblance between them.

He lifted his right arm. “Nadir we!” he shouted, and his voice belied his age; resonant and powerful, it floated above the massed ranks, and the men echoed the shout solemnly.

“There is no going back from this quest,” said the shaman, addressing the trio. “You are all kinsmen. Each of you claims blood link to the great khan. Can you not agree among you who should lead?”

He waited for several seconds, but all three remained silent

“Then hear the wisdom of Asta Khan. You expect to fight one another—I see that your bodies and your weapons are sharp. But there will be no battle of the blood. Instead I shall send you to a place that is not of this world. He that returns will be the khan, for he will find the helm of Ulric. Death will be closer to you, for you will be walking within his realm. You will see terrible sights; you will hear the screams of the damned. Do you still wish this quest?”

“Let us begin!” snapped Saddleskull. “Get ready to die, mongrel,” he whispered to Tenaka.

The shaman stepped forward, placing his hand on Saddleskull’s head. The warlord’s eyes closed, and his head dropped. Knifespeaks followed, then Tenaka Khan.

Asta Khan squatted down before the sleeping trio, then he closed his eyes.

“Stand!” he ordered

The three men opened their eyes and stood, blinking in surprise. They were still before the tomb of Ulric, only now they were alone. Gone were the warriors, the tents, and the camp fires.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Knifespeaks.

“There is the tomb of Ulric,” answered Asta Khan. “All you must do is fetch the helm from the sleeping khan.”

Knifespeaks and Saddleskull loped off toward the tomb. There were no entrances visible: no doors, only smooth white marble.

Tenaka sat down, and the shaman squatted beside him.

“Why do you not search with your cousins?” he asked.

“I know where to look.”

Asta Khan nodded. “I knew you would come back.”