“They are his own work,” Serbitar whispered to Virae, “though he will not own to them. I know not why. He is a fine poet.”
“But they are so sad,” she said.
“All beauty is sad,” replied the albino. “For it fades.”
He left her and retreated to a nearby willow, sitting with his back to the tree, a silver ghost in the moonlight.
Arbedark joined Rek and Virae, handing them honey cakes he had purchased at the port. Rek glanced over at the lonely figure of the albino.
“He travels,” said Arbedark. “Alone.”
As the dawn bird song began, Rek groaned and eased his aching body away from the probing tree roots that were denting his side. His eyes opened. Most of the Thirty were still asleep, though tall Antaheim stood sentry by the stream. At the willow Serbitar remained where he had been during the recital.
Rek sat up and stretched, his mouth dry. Pushing back his blanket, he walked to the horses, removed his pack, rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen, and went to the stream. Taking out a bar of soap, he stripped the shirt from his chest and knelt by the swiftly rushing water.
“Please don’t do that,” said Antaheim.
“What?”
The tall warrior walked across to him, squatting by his side. “The soap bubbles will carry downstream. It is not wise thus to announce our movements.”
Rek cursed himself for a fool and apologized swiftly.
“That is not necessary. I am sorry to have intruded. Do you see that plant there, by the lichen rock?” Rek twisted, then nodded. “It is a lemon mint. Wash in the water, then crush some of the leaves and clean your body. It will refresh you and create … a more pleasant aroma.”
“Thank you. Is Serbitar still traveling?”
“He should not be. I will seek him.” Antaheim closed his eyes for several seconds. When they opened again, Rek recognized panic, and the warrior ran from the stream. In that moment all the members of the Thirty surged from their blankets and raced to Serbitar by the willow.
Rek dropped his shirt and soap on the bank and moved to join them. Vintar was bending over the albino’s still form; he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the young leader’s slender face. For long moments he remained thus. Sweat broke out upon his forehead, and he began to sway. When he lifted a hand, Menahem joined him instantly, raising Serbitar’s head. The swarthy warrior lifted the albino’s right eyelid: the iris was red as blood.
Virae dropped to her knees beside Rek. “His eyes are green normally,” she said. “What is happening?”
“I don’t know,” said Rek.
Antaheim rose from the group and sprinted for the undergrowth, returning minutes later with what appeared to be an armful of vine leaves, which he tipped to the ground. Gathering dried twigs, he fashioned a small fire; then, setting up a tripod of branches, he hung a pot above the flames, filled it with water, and crushed the leaves between his palms, dropping them into the pot. Soon the water began to bubble, and a sweet aroma filled the air. Antaheim lifted the pan from the flames, adding cold water from his canteen, then transferred the green liquid to a leather-covered pottery mug, which he passed to Menahem. Slowly they opened Serbitar’s mouth, and while Vintar held the albino’s nostrils, they poured in the liquid. Serbitar gagged and swallowed, and Vintar released his nose. Menahem laid his head back on the grass, and Antaheim swiftly killed the fire. There had been little smoke.
“What’s going on?” asked Rek as Vintar approached him.
“We will talk later,” said Vintar. “Now I must rest.” He stumbled to his blankets and lay down, slipping instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“I feel like a one-legged man in a footrace,” said Rek.
Menahem joined them, his dark face gray with exhaustion as he sipped water from a leather canteen. He stretched his long legs out on the grass and lay on his side, supporting himself on his elbow. He turned toward Rek.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said, “but I did overhear you. You must forgive Vintar. He is older than the rest of us, and the strain of the hunt proved too much for him.”
“The hunt? What hunt?” asked Virae.
“We sought Serbitar. He had journeyed far, and the path was sundered. He could not return, and we had to find him. Vintar guessed rightly that he had retreated into the mists and taken his chances. He had to seek him.”
“I’m sorry, Menahem. You look worn out,” said Rek, “but try to remember that we do not know what you are talking about. Into the mists? What the devil does that mean?”
Menahem sighed. “How can one explain colors to a blind man?”
“One says,” snapped Rek, “that red is like silk, blue is like cool water, and yellow is like sunshine on the face.”
“Forgive me, Rek. I am tired, I did not mean to be rude,” said Menahem. “I cannot explain the mists to you as I understand them. But I will try to give you some idea.
“There are many futures but only one past. When we travel beyond ourselves, we walk a straight path, journeying much as we are doing now. We direct ourselves over vast distances. But the path back remains solid, for it is locked in our memories. Do you understand?”
“So far,” said Rek. “Virae?”
“I’m not an idiot, Rek.”
“Sorry. Go on, Menahem.”
“Now try to imagine that there are other paths. Not just from, say, Drenan to Delnoch but from today into tomorrow. Tomorrow has not yet happened, and the possibilities for it are endless. Each one of us makes a decision that will affect tomorrow. But let us say we do travel into tomorrow. Then we are faced with a multitude of paths, gossamer-thin and shifting. In one tomorrow Dros Delnoch has already fallen; in another it has been saved or is about to fall or about to be saved. Already we have four paths. Which is true? And when we tread the path, how do we return to today, which from where we are standing is a multitude of yesterdays? To which do we return? Serbitar journeyed far beyond tomorrow. And Vintar found him as we held the path in sight.”
“You used the wrong analogy,” said Rek. “It is nothing like explaining colors to a blind man. Rather, it is more like teaching archery to a rock. I haven’t the remotest idea what you are talking about. Will Serbitar be all right?”
“We don’t know yet. If he lives, he will have information of great value.”
“What happened to his eyes? How did they change color?” asked Virae.
“Serbitar is an albino—a true albino. He needs certain herbs in order to maintain his strength. Last night he journeyed too far and lost his way. It was foolhardy. But his heartbeat is strong, and he is now resting.”
“Then he won’t die?” said Rek.
“That we cannot say. He traveled a path which stretched his mind. It could be he will suffer the pull; this happens sometimes to travelers. They move so far from themselves that they just drift, like smoke. If his spirit is broken, it will pass from him and return to the mist.”
“Can’t you do anything?”
“We have done all we can. We cannot hold him forever.”
“When will we know?” asked Rek.
“When he awakes. If he awakes.”
The long morning wore on, and Serbitar still lay unmoving. The Thirty volunteered no conversation, and Virae had walked upstream to bathe. Bored and tired, Rek took the dispatches from his pouch. The bulky scroll sealed in red wax was addressed to Earl Delnar. Rek broke the seal and spread the letter wide. In flowing script the message read:
My dear friend,
Even as you read this, our intelligence is that the Nadir will be upon you. We have tried repeatedly to secure peace, having offered all that we have save the right to govern ourselves as a free people. Ulric will have none of this—he wishes to secure for himself a kingdom stretching between the northern and southern seas.
I know the Dros cannot hold, and I therefore rescind my order that you fight to the last. It will be a battle without profit and without hope.
Woundweaver is—
needless to say—against this policy and has made it clear that he will take his army into the hills as a raiding force should the Nadir be allowed to pass to the Sentran Plain.
You are an old soldier, and the decision must be yours.
Pin the blame for surrender upon me. It is mine by right, since I have brought the Drenai people to this parlous state.
Do not think of me unkindly. I have always tried to do that which was best for my people.
But perhaps the years have told more heavily upon me than I realized, for my wisdom has been lacking in my dealings with Ulric.
It was signed simply “Abalayn,” and below the signature was the red seal of the Drenai dragon.
Rek refolded the scroll and returned it to his saddlebag.
Surrender … A helping hand at the brink of the abyss.
Virae returned from the stream, her hair dripping and her features flushed.
“Ye gods, that was good!” she said, sitting beside him. “Why the long face? Serbitar not awake yet?”
“No. Tell me, what would your father have done if Abalayn had told him to surrender the Dros?”
“He would never have given that order to my father.”
“But if he had?” insisted Rek.
“The point does not arise. Why do you always ask questions that have no relevance?”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me. What would he have done?”
“He would have refused. Abalayn would know that my father is the lord of Dros Delnoch, the High Warden of the North. He can be relieved of command but not ordered to give up the fortress.”
“Suppose Abalayn had then left the choice to Delnar. What then?”
“He would have fought to the last; it was his way. Now will you tell me what all this is about?”
“The dispatch Degas gave me for your father. It is a letter from Abalayn withdrawing his ‘fight to the last’ order.”
“How dare you open that?” stormed Virae. “It was addressed to my father and should have been given to me. How dare you!” Her face red with fury, she suddenly struck out at him. When he parried the blow, she launched another, and without thinking he struck her flat-handed, sending her sprawling to the grass.
She lay there, eyes blazing.
“I’ll tell you how I dare,” he said, suppressing his anger with great effort. “Because I am the earl. And if Delnar is dead, then it was addressed to me. Which means that the decision to fight is mine. As is the decision to open the gates to the Nadir.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? A way out?” She rose to her feet, snatching up her leather jerkin.
“Think what you like,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me. Anyway, I should have known better than to talk to you about the letter. I’d forgotten how much this war means to you. You can’t wait to see the crows feast, can you? Can’t wait for the bodies to start swelling and rotting! You hear me?” he shouted at her back as she walked away.
“Trouble, my friend?” asked Vintar as he sat down opposite the angry Rek.
“Nothing whatsoever to do with you,” snapped the new earl.
“Of that I don’t doubt,” said Vintar calmly. “But I might be able to help. After all, I’ve known Virae for many years.”
“I’m sorry, Vintar. That was unforgivable of me.”
“I have found in my life, Rek, that there are a few actions which are unforgivable. And certainly there are no words said that carry such a penalty. It is a man’s lot, I fear, to strike out when he has suffered hurt. Now, can I help?”
Rek told him about the dispatch and Virae’s reaction.
“A thorny problem, my boy. What will you do?”
“I have not yet made up my mind.”
“That is as well. No one should make a hasty decision over such a weighty matter. Do not be too hard on Virae; she is now sitting by the stream and feeling very miserable. She is desperately sorry for what she said and is merely waiting for you to apologize so that she can tell you it was all her own fault.”
“I’ll be damned if I will apologize,” said Rek.
“It will be a frosty ride if you do not,” said the abbot.
A soft moan came from the sleeping Serbitar. Instantly Vintar, Menahem, Arbedark, and Rek moved over to him. The albino’s eyes fluttered and opened … Once more they were the green of rose leaves. He smiled at Vintar.
“Thank you, Lord Abbot,” he whispered. Vintar patted his face gently.
“Are you all right?” asked Rek.
Serbitar smiled. “I am well. Weak but well.”
“What happened?” asked Rek.
“Nosta Khan. I tried to force entry at the fortress and was flung into the outer mists. I was lost … broken. I saw futures that were terrible and chaos beyond all imagining. I fled.” He lowered his eyes. “I fled in panic, I know not where or when.”
“Speak no more, Serbitar,” said Vintar. “Rest now.”
“I cannot rest,” said the albino, struggling to rise. “Help me, Rek.”
“Maybe you should rest, as Vintar says,” Rek told him.
“No. Listen to me. I did enter Delnoch, and I saw death there. Terrible death!”
“The Nadir are there already?” asked Rek.
“No. Be silent. I could not see the man clearly, but I saw the Musif well being poisoned behind Wall Two. Anyone who drinks from that well will die.”
“But we should arrive before the fall of Wall One,” said Rek. “And surely they will not need the Musif well until then.”
“That is not the point. Eldibar, or Wall One as you call it, is indefensible. It is too wide; any capable commander will give it up. Don’t you understand? That’s why the traitor poisoned the other well. Druss is bound to fight his first battle there, and the men will be fed that day at dawn. By midday the deaths will begin, and by dusk you will have an army of ghosts.”
“We must ride,” said Rek. “Now! Get him on a horse.”
Rek ran to find Virae as the Thirty saddled their mounts. Vintar and Arbedark helped Serbitar to his feet.
“There was more, was there not?” said Vintar.
“Aye, but some tragedies are best left unspoken.”
For three days they rode in the shadow of the Delnoch range into deep glens and over wooded hills. They rode swiftly but with caution, Menahem scouting ahead and pulsing messages to Serbitar. Virae had said little since the argument and avoided Rek studiously. He in turn gave no ground and made no attempt to breach the silence, though it hurt him deeply.
On the morning of the fourth day, as they breasted a small hill above thick woods, Serbitar held up a hand to halt the column.
“What’s wrong?” asked Rek, drawing alongside.
“I have lost contact with Menahem.”
“Trouble?”
“I don’t know. He could have been thrown from his horse.”
“Let us go and find out,” said Rek, spurring the mare.
“No!” called Serbitar, but the horse was already on the move downhill and gathering speed. Rek tugged at the reins to bring the animal’s head up, then leaned back in the saddle as the beast slithered to the foot of the hill. Once more on firm ground, Rek glanced about him. Among the trees he could see Menahem’s gray standing with head down, and beyond the warrior himself lying facedown on the grass. Rek cantered the mare toward him, but as he passed under the first tree, a whisper of movement alerted him and he flung himself from his saddle as a man leapt from the branches. Rek landed on his side, rolled, and regained his feet, dragging his sword free of its scabbard. His attacker was joined by two others; all wore the flowing white robes of the Sathuli.
Rek backed toward the fallen Menahem and glanced down. The warrior’s head was bleeding at the temple. Slingshot, Rek realized, but had no chance to check if the priest was still alive. Other Sathuli now crept from the undergrowth, their broad tulwars and long knives in hand.
Slowly they advanced, grins splitting their dark, bearded features. Rek grinned back.
He slid his right hand farther up the hilt of his sword, making room for his left. This was no time for fancy swordplay; it would be hack and stand, two-handed. Once again he felt the strange sense of departure that heralded the baresark rage. This time he welcomed it.
With an ear-piercing scream he attacked them all, slashing through the throat of the first man as his mouth opened in astonishment. Then he was among them, his blade a whistling arc of bright light and crimson death. Momentarily stunned by his assault, they fell back, then leapt forward again, screaming their own war cries. More tribesmen burst from the undergrowth behind him as the thunder of hooves was heard.
Rek was not aware of the arrival of the Thirty. He parried a blow and backhanded his blade across the face of his assailant, stepping over the corpse to engage yet another tribesman.
Serbitar fought in vain to establish a defensive ring that could include Rek. His slender blade swept out, kissing and killing with surgical precision. Even Vintar, the oldest and least capable swordsman, found little difficulty in slaying the Sathuli warriors. Savage as they were, they were untutored in fencing skills, relying on ferocity, fearlessness, and weight of numbers to wear down a foe. And this tactic would work again, Vintar knew, for they were outnumbered perhaps four to one with no avenue of retreat open to them.
The clash of steel on steel and the cries of the wounded echoed in the small clearing. Virae, cut across the upper arm, disemboweled one man and ducked beneath a slashing tulwar as a new attacker stormed in. Tall Antaheim stepped forward to block a second slash. Arbedark moved through the battle like a dancer; a short sword in each hand, he choreographed death and destruction like a silver ghost of Elder legends.
Rek’s anger grew. Was it all for this? Meeting Virae, coming to terms with his fears, taking the mantle of earl? All so that he could die on a tribesman’s tulwar in an unnamed wood? He hammered his blade through the clumsy guard of the Sathuli before him, then kicked the falling corpse into the path of a new attacker.
“Enough!” he yelled suddenly, his voice ringing through the trees. “Put up your swords, all of you!” The Thirty obeyed instantly, stepping back and forming a ring of steel about the fallen Menahem, leaving Rek standing alone. The Sathuli slowly lowered their swords, glancing nervously one to another.
Drenai Saga 01 - Legend Page 19