Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate

by David Gemmell

  But though Tenaka questioned the leaders, he learned little.

  They were courteous and polite—even distantly friendly—but their answers floated above his head like clouds beyond the grasp of common men. Decado was no different; he would merely smile and change the subject.

  Tenaka was not a religious man, yet he felt ill at ease among these warrior-priests and his mind constantly returned to the words of the blind seeker.

  “Of gold and ice and shadow …” The man had predicted that the trio would come together. And they had. He had also foreseen the danger of the Templars.

  On the first night of their journey Tenaka approached the elderly Abaddon, and the two walked away from the fire together.

  “I saw you in Skultik,” said Tenaka. “You were being attacked by a Joining.”

  “Yes. I apologize for the deceit.”

  “What was the reason for it?”

  “It was a test, my son. But not merely of you—of ourselves.”

  “I do not understand,” said Tenaka.

  “It is not necessary that you should. Do not fear us, Tenaka. We are here to help you in whatever way we can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it serves the Source.”

  “Can you not answer me without religious riddles? You are men. What do you gain from this war?”

  “Nothing in this world.”

  “You know why I came here?”

  “Yes, my son. To purge your mind of guilt and grief, to drown it in Ceska’s blood.”

  “And now?”

  “Now you are caught up in forces beyond your control. Your grief is assuaged by your love for Renya, but the guilt remains. You did not obey the call—you left your friends to be butchered by the Joinings of Ceska. You ask yourself if it would have been different had you come. Could you have defeated the Joinings? You torment yourself thus.”

  “Could I have defeated the Joinings?”

  “No, my son.”

  “Can I do it now?”

  “No,” said Abaddon sadly.

  “Then what are we doing here? What is the point?”

  “That is for you to say, for you are the real leader.”

  “I am not a Torchbearer, priest! I am a man. I choose my own destiny.”

  “Of course you do; I did not say otherwise. But you are a man of honor. When responsibility is thrust upon you, can you run from it? No—you never have and you never will. That is what makes you as you are. That is why men follow you, though they hate your blood. They trust you.”

  “I am not a lover of lost causes, priest. You may have a desire to die, but I do not. I am not a hero; I am a soldier. When the battle is lost, I retreat and regroup; when the war is over, I lay down my sword. No last dashing charge, no futile last stand!”

  “I understand that,” said Abaddon.

  “Then know this: No matter how impossible this war, I shall fight to win. Whatever I have to do, I will do. Nothing could be worse than Ceska.”

  “Now you are speaking of the Nadir. You want my blessing?”

  “Don’t read my mind, damn you!”

  “I did not read your mind, only your words. You know the Nadir hate the Drenai. You will merely exchange one bloody tyrant for another.”

  “Perhaps. But I shall attempt it.”

  “Then we will help you.”

  “As simply as that? No pleas, no urgings, no advice?”

  “I have told you that your plan with the Nadir carries too many dangers. I shall not repeat myself. But you are the leader; it is your decision.”

  “I have told only Arvan. The others would not understand.”

  “I shall say nothing.”

  Tenaka left him then and walked out into the night. Abaddon sat down with his back against a tree. He was tired, and his soul felt heavy. He wondered then if the abbots before him had known such doubts.

  Did the poet Vintar carry such a burden when he rode with the Thirty into Delnoch? One day soon he would know.

  He sensed the approach of Decado. The warrior was troubled, but his anger was fading. Abaddon closed his eyes, resting his head against the rough bark of the tree.

  “May we talk?” asked Decado.

  “The voice may speak to whomever he pleases,” Abaddon answered without opening his eyes.

  “May we talk as before, when I was your pupil?”

  Abaddon sat up and smiled gently. “Join me, then, my pupil.”

  “I am sorry for my anger and the harsh words I used.”

  “Words are but noises, my son. I put you under great strain.”

  “I fear I am not the leader the Source would prefer. I wish to stand down in favor of Acuas. Is that allowed?”

  “Wait for a little while. Make no decision yet. Rather, tell me what changed your mind.”

  Decado leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stars. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “It was when I challenged the Templar and risked all your lives. It was not a worthy deed, and it shamed me. But you obeyed. You put your souls in my hand. And I didn’t care.”

  “But you care now, Decado?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “I am glad, my boy.”

  For a while they sat in silence, and then Decado spoke. “Tell me, Lord Abbot, how it was that the Templar fell so easily.”

  “You expected to die?”

  “I thought it a possibility.”

  “The man you slew was one of the Six, the rulers of the Templars. His name was Padaxes. He was a vile man, a former Source priest whose lusts overcame him.

  “True, he had powers. They all have. Compared with ordinary men, they are invincible. Deadly! But you, my dear Decado, are no ordinary man. You also have powers, but they lie dormant. When you fight, you release those powers and they make you a warrior beyond compare. But add to this the fact that you fought not just for yourself but for others, and you became invincible. Evil is never truly strong, for it is born of fear. Why did he fall so easily? Because he tested your strength and saw the possibility of death. At that moment, had he possessed true courage, he would have fought back. Instead he froze—and died.

  “But he will return, my son. In greater strength!”

  “He is dead.”

  “But the Templars are not. There are six hundred of them and many more acolytes. The deaths of Padaxes and his group of twenty will have whiplashed through their order. Even now they will be mustering, preparing for the hunt. And they have seen us.

  “Throughout today I have felt the presence of evil. As we speak, they hover beyond the shield Acuas and Katan have placed over our camp.”

  Decado shivered. “Can we win against them?”

  “No. But then, we are not here to win.”

  “Then why?”

  “We are here to die,” said Abaddon.

  Argonis was tired and not a little hung over. The party had been fine, and the girls … oh, the girls! Trust Egon to find the right women. Argonis reined in his black gelding as the scout galloped into view. He lifted his hand, halting the column.

  The scout dragged back on his reins, and his mount checked its run and reared, pawing the air. The man saluted.

  “Riders, sir—about forty of them, heading into Skoda. They’re well armed, and they seem military. Are they ours?”

  “Let us find out,” said Argonis, lifting his arm and waving on the column. It was conceivable that they were a scouting party from Delnoch, but in that case they would not head into the rebels’ lair, not with only forty men. Argonis glanced back, seeking reassurance, and received it as his eyes wandered over the hundred legion riders.

  It would be a relief to see action and might even clear his head. Military men, the scout had said. That would make a change from witless villagers hacking about with hoes and axes.

  Reaching the crest of a range of hills, Argonis gazed down over a rolling plain almost at the foot of the Skoda range. The scout rode alongside as Argonis shielded his eyes and studied the riders below.


  “Ours, sir?” queried the scout.

  “No. Delnoch-issue red cloaks, or blue for officers—never white. I think they are Vagrian raiders.”

  At that moment the column below broke into a canter, heading for the sanctuary of the mountains.

  “At the gallop!” yelled Argonis, drawing his saber, and a hundred black-garbed horsemen set off in pursuit, hooves drumming on the hard-packed earth.

  With the advantage of the slope and the fact that they were cutting toward the enemy at an angle, the gap swiftly narrowed.

  Excitement swept through Argonis as he bent low over his horse’s neck, the morning breeze fanning his face, his saber glinting in the sunlight.

  “No prisoners!” he screamed. He was close enough now to see individual riders and to note that three were women. Then he saw the black man riding alongside one of them, obviously encouraging her: She was not sitting well in the saddle and appeared to be holding something in her arms. Her companion leaned over in the saddle and snatched the bundle from her; with both hands on the reins, her mount picked up speed. Argonis grinned. What a futile gesture, for the legion would be upon them before they reached the mountains.

  Suddenly the white-cloaked riders wheeled their mounts. It was a spectacular example of discipline, for they made the move in perfect unison, and before Argonis could react, they had turned and were charging. Panic struck at Argonis’ heart. Here he was, out in front leading the chase, and now thirty madmen were bearing down on him. He dragged on the reins, and his men followed suit, confused and uncertain.

  The Thirty hit them like a winter storm, silver blades flashing and slicing. Horses reared, and men screamed as they fell from the saddle. Then the white-cloaked riders wheeled once more and galloped away.

  Argonis was furious. “After them!” he yelled, but wisely held back his own mount as his men thundered in pursuit. The mountains were nearer now, and the enemy had begun the long climb to the first valley. A horse stumbled and fell, pitching a blond woman to the grass; three riders spurred their horses at her. A tall man dressed in black, his face masked, swung his horse and raced to intercept them. Argonis watched fascinated as the masked man ducked under a wild cut and disemboweled the first rider, swinging in the saddle to block an overhead cut from the second. Spurring his horse, he cannoned into the third, downing horse and man.

  The woman was up now and running. The masked man parried an attack from the second rider and slashed the man’s throat with a reverse cut. Then he was clear. Sheathing his sword, he galloped his horse toward the woman, leaning over in the saddle. His arm swept down to circle her waist and sweep her up in front of him, then they were gone into the Skoda range.

  Argonis cantered back to the site of the battle. Thirty-one members of his force were down, eighteen dead, another six mortally wounded.

  His men returned, dejected and demoralized. The scout, Lepus, approached Argonis and dismounted. Saluting swiftly, he held Argonis’ mount as the officer slid from the saddle.

  “Who in hell’s name were they?” asked Lepus.

  “I don’t know, but they made us look like children.”

  “Is that what your report will say, sir?”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We will have a thousand legion riders here in a few days. Then we will smoke them out; they cannot defend an entire range. We shall see those white-cloaked bastards again.”

  “I’m not sure that I want to,” said Lepus.

  Tenaka pulled his mount to a stop by a winding stream that trickled through a grove of elm on the western side of the valley. He swung in the saddle, seeking Ananais; he could see the warrior walking his horse, Valtaya sitting sidesaddle behind him. They had made it without losing a single member of their party, thanks only to the spectacular skills of the Thirty.

  Dismounting, Tenaka left his horse to graze; he loosened the saddle cinch and patted the beast’s neck. Renya rode alongside and leapt from the saddle, her face flushed and her eyes bright with excitement.

  “Are we safe now?” she asked.

  “For the moment,” he answered.

  Ananais lifted his leg over the pommel of his saddle and slid to the ground, turning to lift Valtaya clear. She smiled at him and draped her arms over his shoulders.

  “Will you always be on hand to save my life?”

  “Always is a long time, lady,” he answered, his hands on her waist.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you have beautiful eyes?”

  “Not lately,” he said, releasing her and walking away.

  Galand watched the scene and then moved to Valtaya.

  “I should forget it, girl,” he said. “The man is not for winning.”

  “But you are, eh, Galand?”

  “I am, lass! But take your time before saying yes. I’m not exactly a great catch.”

  Valtaya laughed. “You are better than you think.”

  “But it’s no just the same?”

  “I don’t think you are looking for a wife, are you?”

  “If only we had the time,” Galand answered seriously, and reaching out, he took her hand. “You are a fine woman, Val, and I don’t think a man could do better. I wish I had known you in better days.”

  “Times are what we make them. There are other nations in the world where men like Ceska are shunned. Peaceful nations.”

  “I don’t want to be a foreigner, Val. I want to live in my own land among my own people. I want …” Galand’s words tailed away, and Valtaya saw the anguish in his eyes. She laid her hand on his arm, and he looked away.

  “What is it, Galand? What were you going to say?”

  “It doesn’t matter, lass.” He turned back to her, his eyes clear and his emotions masked. “Tell me what you see in our scarred companion.”

  “I don’t know. That is a difficult question for a woman to answer. Come on; let us get some food.”

  Decado, Acuas, Balan, and Katan left the group at the campsite and rode back to the mouth of the valley, pausing to gaze down on the green plain where the men of the legion were ministering to their wounded. The dead had been wrapped in blankets and tied across their saddles.

  “You did well,” said Decado, lifting his helm and hooking it over his pommel.

  “It was appalling,” said Katan.

  Decado swung in the saddle. “You chose to be a warrior. Accept it!”

  “I know that, Decado,” answered the dark-eyed priest. He smiled ruefully and rubbed his face. “But I cannot revel in it.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You have chosen to fight against evil, and you have just won a small victory. The babe back there would now be dead but for you and the others.”

  “I know that, too. I am not a child. But it is hard.”

  The four dismounted and sat on the grass, enjoying the sunshine. Decado removed his white cloak and folded it carefully. He closed his eyes, suddenly aware of a strange sensation like a cool breeze inside his head.

  He tried to focus on it and became aware of subtle ebbs and flows within his mind, like the distant echo of rolling waves over shingle. He lay back, drifting and at peace, moving within himself toward the source of the sensation. He was not surprised when the whispering seas became faint voices, and he recognized that of Acuas.

  “I still feel Abaddon could be wrong. Did you sense Decado’s battle lust as we struck the riders? The force was so powerful, it almost infected me.”

  “Abaddon says not to judge.” This from Katan.

  “But he is the abbot no longer.” Balan spoke.

  “He will always be the Abbot of Swords. He must be respected.” Katan again.

  “It makes me feel uncomfortable,” pulsed Acuas. “Where is his talent? In all the long history of the Thirty there has never been a leader who could not travel and speak.”

  “I think perhaps we should consider the alternatives,” pulsed Katan. “If Abaddon was misled in his choice of the voice, then that would mean chaos has mastered th
e Source. In turn, that would negate every other choice Abaddon has made and render us outside the destiny.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Balan. “We are all human. Abaddon could have made merely one mistake. He is Source-guided, but so much depends on interpretation. Estin’s death and Decado’s arrival could have been either coincidence or dark design.”

  “Or Source-inspired?” pulsed Acuas.

  “Indeed so.”

  Decado opened his eyes and sat up. “What are they planning?” he asked aloud, pointing to the legion.

  “They are waiting for the arrival of their army,” said Acuas. “The leader there, a man named Argonis, is telling his men that we will be smoked out of these mountains and destroyed along with every other rebel in Skoda. He is trying to lift them.”

  “But he is not succeeding,” put in Balan.

  “Tell us of the Dragon, Decado,” Katan said, and Decado smiled.

  “Days of long ago,” he said. “It seems like another lifetime.”

  “Did you enjoy the life?” inquired Acuas.

  “Yes and no. More no than yes, I recall. The Dragon was strange. In some way I suppose it created a bond similar to yours, except of course that we had no talent and could neither travel nor speak as you do. But we were a family. Brothers. And we held the nation together.”

  “You must have been saddened when Ceska destroyed your friends,” said Balan.

  “Yes. But I was a priest, and my life had changed very much. I had my garden and my plants. The world had become a small place indeed.”

  “It always amazed me that you produced so many varieties of vegetables in such a small section,” said Balan.

  Decado chuckled. “I grew tomatoes inside potatoes,” he said. “I placed the seedlings in a potato, and while the tomatoes grew upward, the potatoes grew down. I was quite pleased with the results.”

  “Do you miss your garden?” asked Acuas.

  “No, I do not. And that makes me sad.”

  “Did you enjoy your life as a priest?” said Katan.

  Decado looked at the slender young man with the gentle face. “Do you enjoy life as a warrior?” he countered.

  “No. Not in the least.”