“In these mountains, there is life and the air tastes like wine. You are right when you say we may not stand against the Joinings. We know that, for we are not fools. There is no glory here, but we are men and the sons of men, and we bend the knee to no one. Why don’t you join us and learn even now of the joys of freedom?”
“Freedom? You are in a cage, Ananais. The Vagrians will not let you move east into their lands, and we wait in the west. You delude yourself. What price your freedom? In a matter of days the armies of the emperor will gather here, filling the plain. You have seen the Joinings of Ceska—well, there are more to come. Huge beasts blended from the apes of the east, from the great bears of the north, from the wolves of the south. They strike like lightning and feed on human flesh. Your pitiful force will be swept aside like dust before a storm. Tell me then of freedom, Ananais. I desire not the freedom of the grave.”
“And yet it comes to you, Breight, in every white hair, every decaying wrinkle. Death will stalk you and lay his cold hands upon your eyes. You cannot escape! Begone, little man, your day is done.”
Breight looked up at the defenders and opened his arms.
“Don’t let this man deceive you!” he shouted. “My lord Ceska is a man of honor, and he will abide by his promise.”
“Go home and die!” said Ananais, turning on his heels and striding back to his men.
“Death will come to you before me,” screamed Breight, “and his coming will be terrible.” Then the old man wheeled his horse and cantered downhill.
“I think the war will start tomorrow,” muttered Thorn.
Ananais nodded and waved Decado to him. “What do you think?”
Decado shrugged. “We could not pierce the screen the Templars mounted.”
“Did they pierce ours?”
“No.”
“Then we start even,” said Ananais. “But they have tried to win us with words. Now it will be swords, and they will try to demoralize us by a sudden attack. The question is where, and what are we going to do about it?”
“Well,” said Decado, “the great Tertullian was once asked what he would do if he was attacked by a man stronger, faster, and infinitely more skillful than he.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he would cut off his damned head for being a liar.”
“Sounds good,” put in Thorn, “but words are not worth pigs’ droppings now.”
“You are right there,” said Ananais, grinning. “So what do you suggest, mountain man?”
“Let’s cut off their damned heads!”
The hut was bathed in a soft red glow as the log fire burned low. Ananais lay on the bed, his head resting on his arm. Valtaya sat beside him, rubbing oil into his shoulders and back, kneading the muscles, loosening the knots of tension around his spine. Her fingers were strong, and the slow rhythmic movements of her hands soothing. He sighed and fell into a half sleep, dreaming dreams of brighter days.
As her fingers began to burn with fatigue, she lifted them from his broad back, pushing pressure onto her palms for a while. His breathing deepened. She covered him with a blanket and then pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat staring at his ruined face. The angry scar below his eye seemed cooler now and dry; she gently smoothed oil on the skin. His breath made a snuffling sound as it was sucked through the oval holes where his nose should have been. Valtaya leaned back, sadness a growing ache within her. He was a fine man and did not deserve his fate. It had taken all her considerable nerve just to kiss him, and even now she could not gaze on his features without feeling revulsion. Yet she loved him.
Life was cruel and infinitely sorrowful.
She had slept with many men in her life. Once it had been a vocation, once a profession. During the latter time many ugly men had come to her, and with them she had learned to hide her feelings. She was glad now of the lessons, for when she had removed Ananais’ mask, two sensations had struck her simultaneously. One was the awful horror of his mutilated face. The other was the terrible anxiety in his eyes. Strong as he was, in that moment he was made of crystal. Now she transferred her gaze to his hair: tightly curled gold thread laced with silver. The Golden One! How handsome he once must have been. Like a god. She pushed a hand through her own fair hair, sweeping it away from her eyes.
Tired, she stood and stretched her back. The window was partly open, and she pushed it wide. Outside the valley was silent beneath a scimitar moon.
“I wish I was young again,” she whispered. “I would have married that poet.”
Katan soared above the mountains and wished that his body could fly as high as his spirit. He wanted to taste the air, feel the harsh winds on his skin. Below him the mountains of Skoda reared like spear points. He flew higher, and the mountains took on another image. Katan smiled.
Skoda had become a stone rose with jagged petals on a field of green. Rings of towering granite, interlinking to create a Gargantuan bloom.
To the northeast Katan could just make out the fortress of Delnoch, while to the southeast were the glittering cities of the Drenai. It was all so beautiful. From here there was no cruelty, no torture, no terror. No room here for men with small minds and limitless ambition.
He turned again to the rose of Skoda. The outer petals concealed nine valleys through which an army could march. He scanned them all, gauging the contours and gradients, picturing lines of fighting men, charging horsemen, fleeing infantry. Committing the facts to memory, he moved on to the second ring of mountains. Here there were only four main valleys, but three treacherous passes threaded their way through to the open pastures and woodlands beyond.
At the center of the rose the mountains bunched with only two access points from the east: the valleys known as Tarsk and Magadon.
His mission completed, Katan returned to his body and reported to Decado. He could offer no hope.
“There are nine main valleys and a score of other narrow passes on the outer ring. Even on the inner ring around Carduil there are two lines of attack. Our force could not hold even one. It is impossible to plan a defense that stands a one in twenty chance of success. And by success I mean standing off one attack.”
“Say nothing to anyone,” ordered Decado. “I will speak to Ananais.”
“As you wish,” said Katan coolly.
Decado smiled gently. “I am sorry, Katan.”
“For what?”
“For what I am,” the warrior answered, moving away up the hill until he reached the high ground overlooking several spreading valleys. This was good country, sheltered, peaceful. The ground was not rich like the Sentran Plain to the northeast, but when treated with care, the farms prospered and the cattle grew fat on the grass of the timberlands.
Decado’s family had been farmers far to the east, and he guessed that the love of growing things had been planted in him at the moment of conception. He crouched down, digging his strong fingers into the earth at his feet. There was clay here, and the grass grew lush and thick.
“May I join you?” asked Katan.
“Please do.”
The two men sat in silence for a while, watching distant cattle grazing on fertile slopes.
“I miss Abaddon,” said Katan suddenly.
“Yes. He was a good man.”
“He was a man with a vision. But he had no patience and only limited belief.”
“How can you say that?” asked Decado. “He believed enough to form the Thirty once more.”
“Precisely! He decided that evil should be met with raw force. And yet our faith claims that evil can only be conquered by love.”
“That is insane. How do you deal with your enemies?”
“How better to deal with them than to make them your friends?” countered Katan.
“The words are pretty, the argument specious. You do not make a friend of Ceska—you become a slave or die.”
Katan smiled. “And what does it matter? The Source governs all things, and eternity mocks human life.”
“Y
ou think it doesn’t matter if we die?”
“Of course it does not. The Source takes us, and we live forever.”
“And if there is no Source?” asked Decado.
“Then death is even more welcome. I do not hate Ceska. I pity him. He has built an empire of terror. And what does he achieve? Each day brings him closer to the grave. Is he content? Does he gaze with love on any single thing? He surrounds himself with warriors to protect him from assassins, then has warriors watching the warriors to sniff out traitors. But who watches the watchers? What a miserable existence!”
“So,” said Decado, “the Thirty are not Source warriors at all?”
“They are if they believe.”
“You cannot have it all ways, Katan.”
The young man chuckled. “Perhaps. How did you become a warrior?”
“All men are warriors, for life is a battle. The farmer battles drought, flood, sickness, and blight. The sailor battles the sea and the storm. I didn’t have the strength for that, so I fought men.”
“And who does the priest fight?”
Decado turned to face the earnest young man. “The priest fights himself. He cannot look at a woman with honest lust without guilt burning into him. He cannot get drunk and forget. He cannot take a day just to soak in the glory of the world’s beauty without wondering if he should be engaged on some worthy deed.”
“For a priest, you have a low opinion of your brothers.”
“On the contrary, I have a very high opinion of them,” said Decado.
“You were very hard on Acuas. He really believed he was rescuing Abaddon’s soul.”
“I know that, Katan. I admire him for it—all of you, in fact. I was angry with myself. It was not easy for me, for I don’t have your faith. For me the Source is a mystery I cannot solve. And yet I promised Abaddon I would see his mission fulfilled. You are fine young men, and I am merely an old warrior in love with death.”
“Do not be too hard on yourself. You are chosen. It is a great honor.”
“Happenstance! I came to the temple, and Abaddon read more into it than he should have.”
“No,” said Katan. “Think on this: You came on the day when one of our brothers died. More than that, you are not just a warrior, you are possibly the greatest swordsman of the age. You defeated the Templars single-handed. Even more, you developed talents with which the rest of us were born. You came to our rescue in the Castle of the Void. How can you not be the natural leader? And if you are … what brought you to us?”
Decado leaned back, staring at the gathering clouds.
“I think we are in for rain,” he remarked.
“Have you tried praying, Decado?”
“It would still rain.”
“Have you tried?” persisted the priest.
Decado sat up and sighed deeply. “Of course I have tried. But I get no answers. I tried on the night you journeyed into the void … but he would not answer me.”
“How can you say that? Did you not learn to soar on that night? Did you not find us through the mists of nontime? You think you did that with your own strength?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then you answered your own prayers?”
“Yes.”
Katan smiled. “Then keep praying. Who knows the heights to which it will carry you?”
Now it was Decado’s turn to chuckle. “You mock me, young Katan! I will not have it. Just for that you can lead the prayers this evening—I think Acuas needs a rest.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
Across the fields Ananais spurred his black gelding into a gallop. Bending low over the beast’s neck, he urged it on, hooves drumming on the dry ground. For those few seconds of speed he forgot his problems, reveling in the freedom of the race. Behind him Galand and Thorn were neck and neck, but their mounts were no match for the gelding, and Ananais reached the stream twenty lengths ahead. He leapt to the ground and patted the horse, keeping him from the water and walking him around to cool down. The others dismounted.
“Unfair!” said Galand. “Your mount is hands higher and bred for speed.”
“But I weigh more than both of you together,” said Ananais.
Thorn said nothing, merely grinned crookedly and shook his head. He liked Ananais and welcomed the change that had come over him since the fair-haired woman had moved into his hut. He seemed more alive, more in tune with the world.
Love was like that. Thorn had been in love many times, and even at sixty-two he hoped for at least another two or three romances. There was a widow woman who had a farm in the high, lonely country to the north; he stopped there often for breakfast. She hadn’t warmed to him yet, but she would. Thorn knew women. There was no point rushing in … Gentle talk, that was the answer. Ask them questions about themselves … Be interested. Most men traveled through life determined to rut as swiftly as the woman would allow. Senseless! Talk first. Learn. Then touch gently, lovingly. Care. Then love and linger. Thorn had learned early, for he had always been ugly. Other men disliked him for his success, but they could never be bothered to learn from it. Fools!
“Another caravan from Vagria this morning,” said Galand, scratching his beard. “But the treasury gold is running low. Those cursed Vagrians have doubled their prices.”
“It’s a seller’s market,” said Ananais. “What did they bring?”
“Arrowheads, iron, some swords. Mostly flour and sugar. Oh, yes—and a quantity of leather and hide. Lake ordered it. There should be enough food to last a month … but no more.”
Thorn’s dry chuckle stopped Galand in full flow.
“What’s so funny?”
“If we are still alive in a month, I will be happy to go hungry!”
“Are the refugees still coming in?” asked Ananais.
“Yes,” said Galand, “but the numbers are shrinking. I think we can handle it. The army now musters at two thousand, but we are being stretched thin. I don’t like sitting around waiting to react. The Dragon operated on the premise that the first blow was vital.”
“We have no choice,” answered Ananais, “since we must hold as wide a line as possible during the next few weeks. If we draw back, they will simply ride in. At the moment they are undecided about what to do.”
“The men are getting edgy,” said Thorn. “It’s not easy just to sit. It makes them think, wonder, imagine. Rayvan’s performing miracles, traveling from valley to valley, fueling their courage, and calling them heroes. But it may not be enough.
“The victory was heady stuff, Ananais, but those who missed the battle now outnumber the men who fought in it. They are untried. And they’re nervous.”
“What do you suggest?”
Thorn grinned his crooked grin. “I’m not a general, Darkmask. You tell me”
15
Caphas moved away from the tents and spread his black cloak on the dry earth as a blanket. He removed his dark helm and settled himself down. The stars were bright, but Caphas had no eyes for them. The night was cool and clean, but he hated the emptiness. He longed for the sanctuary of the temple and the drug-induced orgies. The music of the torture room, the sweet sound of a victim’s plea. Joy was what he missed here in this barren land. Laughter.
A special relationship came into being between the torturer and his victim. First there was defiance and hatred. Then tears and screams. Then begging. And finally, after the spirit was broken, there was a kind of love. Caphas cursed loudly and stood up, arousal creating anger within him. He opened the small leather pouch on his hip and removed a long Lorassium leaf. Rolling it into a ball, he placed it in his mouth and began to chew slowly. As the juices took hold and his mind swam, he became aware of the dreams of the sleeping soldiers and the slow, hungry thoughts of a badger in the undergrowth to his right. He screened them out, forcing his memory to replay a scene from the recent past when they had brought a girl child to the torture room …
Uneasiness flooded him, and he jerked his mind to the present, eyes flicke
ring to the dark shadows in the trees.
A bright light grew before him, shimmering and coalescing into the shape of a warrior in silver armor. A white cloak was draped across his shoulders, the edges fluttering in the winds of spirit.
Caphas closed his eyes and leapt from his body, black soul sword in hand, dark shield on his arm. The warrior parried the blow and stepped back.
“Come here and die,” offered Caphas. “Twelve of your party are dead already. Come and join them!”
The warrior said nothing, and only his blue eyes could be seen through the slit in the silver face helm. The eyes were calm, and the quiet confidence emanating from them seeped into Caphas’ heart. His shield shrank.
“You cannot touch me!” he screamed. “The spirit is stronger than the Source. You are powerless against me!”
The warrior shook his head.
“Damn you!” shouted Caphas as his shield disappeared. He charged forward, slashing wildly.
Acuas parried the blow with ease and then slid his own blade deep into the Templar’s chest. The man gasped as the icy sword cleaved his spirit flesh. Then his soul guttered and died, and beyond it, his body toppled to the earth.
Acuas vanished. Two hundred paces into the wood he opened the eyes of his body and sagged into the supporting arms of Decado and Katan.
“All the Templar guards are dead,” he said.
“Good work!” praised Decado.
“I feel strained by their evil. Even to touch them is to be as one accursed.”
Decado moved back silently to where Ananais waited with a hundred warriors. Thorn crouched to his left, Galand to his right. Fifty of the warriors were legion men of whom Ananais was unsure. Though he trusted Decado’s instincts, the talents of the Thirty left him skeptical still. Tonight he would see whether these men were with him. He was uncomfortably aware of their swords around him.
Ananais led the force to the edge of the trees. Beyond lay the tents of the Delnoch army, a hundred of them, each giving shelter to six men. Beyond the tents were the picket ropes where the horses were tethered.
“I want Breight alive, and I want those horses,” whispered Ananais. “Galand, take fifty men and lead the mounts clear. The rest can follow me.” He moved forward, crouching low, his dark-armored warriors spreading out behind him.
Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate Page 20