Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (9 page)

“Not a time for lovers,” said Serbitar aloud.

“It is always a time for lovers, my son. In war most of all,” said Vintar. “Have you probed the man’s mind?”

“Yes. He is a strange one. A cynic by experience, a romantic by inclination, and now a hero by necessity.”

“How will Menahem test the messenger?” asked Vintar.

“With fear,” answered the albino.

Rek was feeling well. The air he breathed was crisp and clean, and a warm westerly breeze promised an end to the harshest winter in years. The woman he loved was beside him, and the sky was blue and clear.

“What a great day to be alive!” he said.

“What’s so special about today?” asked Virae.

“It’s beautiful. Can’t you taste it? The sky, the breeze, the melting snow?”

“Someone is coming to meet us. He looks like a warrior,” she said.

The rider approached them and dismounted. His face was covered by a black and silver helm crowned with a horse-hair plume. Rek and Virae dismounted and approached him.

“Good morning,” said Rek. The man ignored him; his dark eyes, seen through the slits in the helm, focused on Virae.

“You are the messenger?” he asked her.

“I am. I wish to see Abbot Vintar.”

“First you must pass me,” he said, stepping back and drawing a longsword of silver steel.

“Wait a moment,” said Rek. “What is this? One does not normally have to fight one’s way into a monastery.” Once again the man ignored him, and Virae drew her rapier. “Stop it!” ordered Rek. “This is insane.”

“Stay out of this, Rek,” said Virae. “I will slice this silver beetle into tiny pieces.”

“No, you won’t,” he said, gripping her arm. “That rapier is no good against an armored man. In any case, the whole thing is senseless. You are not here to fight anybody. You simply have a message to deliver, that’s all. There must be a mistake here somewhere. Wait a moment.”

Rek walked toward the warrior, his mind racing, his eyes checking for weak points in the armored defenses. The man wore a molded breastplate over a mail shirt of silver steel. Protecting his neck was a silver torque. His legs were covered to the thigh in leather trews, cased with silver rings, and upon his shins were leather greaves. Only the man’s knees, hands, and chin were open to attack.

“Will you tell me what is happening?” Rek asked him. “I think you may have the wrong messenger. We are here to see the abbot.”

“Are you ready, woman?” asked Menahem.

“Yes,” said Virae, her rapier cutting a figure eight in the morning air as she loosened her wrist.

Rek’s blade flashed into his hand. “Defend yourself,” he cried.

“No, Rek, he’s mine,” shouted Virae. “I don’t need you to fight for me. Step aside!”

“You can have him next,” said Rek. He turned his attention back to Menahem. “Come on, then. Let’s see if you fight as prettily as you look.”

Menahem turned his dark eyes on the tall figure before him. Instantly Rek’s stomach turned over: this was death! Cold, final worm-in-the-eye-sockets death. There was no hope in this contest. Panic welled in Rek’s breast, and his limbs began to tremble. He was a child again, locked in a darkened room, knowing the demons were hiding in the black shadows. Fear in the shape of bile rose in his throat as nausea shook him. He wanted to run … he needed to run.

Instead Rek screamed and launched an attack, his blade whistling toward the black and silver helm. Startled, Menahem hastily parried and a second blow almost got through. The warrior stepped backward, desperately trying to regain the initiative, but Rek’s furious assault had caught him off balance. Menahem parried and moved, trying to circle.

Virae watched in stunned silence as Rek’s blistering assault continued. The two men’s swords glittered in the morning sunlight, a dazzling web of white light, a stunning display of skill. Virae felt a surge of pride. She wanted to cheer Rek on but resisted the urge, knowing the slightest distraction could sway the contest.

“Help me,” pulsed Menahem to Serbitar, “or I may have to kill him.” He parried a blow, catching it only inches from his throat. “If I can,” he added.

“How can we stop it?” Serbitar asked Vintar. “The man is a baresark. I cannot get through to him. He will kill Menahem before much longer.”

“The girl!” said Vintar. “Join with me.”

Virae shivered as she watched Rek growing in strength. Baresark! Her father had told her of such men, but never would she have placed Rek in their company. They were mad killers who lost all sense of reason and fear in combat, becoming the most deadly of opponents. All swordsmen gravitated between defense and attack, for despite a desire to win there was an equal desire not to lose. But the baresark lost all fear; his was an all-out attack, and invariably he took his opponent with him even if he fell. A thought struck her powerfully, and suddenly she knew that the warrior was not trying to kill Rek—the contest was but a test.

“Put up your swords,” she screamed. “Stop it!”

The two men battled on.

“Rek, listen to me!” she shouted. “It’s only a test. He’s not trying to kill you.”

Her voice came to Rek as from a great distance, piercing the red mist before his eyes. Stepping back, he felt rather than saw the relief in the other man; then he took a deep breath and relaxed, his legs shaky, his hands trembling.

“You entered my mind,” he accused the warrior, fixing the man’s dark eyes in a cold gaze. “I don’t know how. But if you ever do it again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” Menahem told him softly, his voice muffled within his helm. Rek sheathed his blade at the second attempt and turned to Virae, who was looking at him strangely.

“It wasn’t really me,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that, Virae.”

“Oh, Rek, I’m sorry,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I’m truly sorry.”

A new kind of fear hit him as she turned her face away. “Don’t leave me,” he said. “It rarely happens, and I would never turn on
you
. Never! Believe me.” She turned to face him, throwing her arms about his neck.

“Leave you? What are you talking about? It doesn’t matter to me, you fool. I was just sorry for you. Oh, Rek, you’re such an idiot. I’m not some tavern girl who squeals at the sight of a rat. I’m a woman who has grown up alongside men. Soldiers. Fighting men. Warriors. You think I would leave you because you are baresark?”

“I can control it,” he said, holding her tightly to him.

“Where we are going, Rek, you will not have to,” she said.

Serbitar left the monastery balcony and poured a goblet of spring water from a stone jug.

“How did he do it?”

Vintar sat back on a leather chair. “There is a well of courage within him, fueled by many things of which we can only guess. But when Menahem fed him fear, he responded with violence. Because what Menahem could not have understood is that the man fears fear itself. Did you glimpse that memory of his childhood during Menahem’s probe?”

“The tunnels, you mean?”

“Yes. What do you make of a child who fears the dark and yet seeks out dark tunnels to travel through?”

“He tried to end his fears by facing them,” said Serbitar.

“He still does. And that’s why Menahem almost died.”

“He will be useful at Dros Delnoch,” said Serbitar, smiling.

“More than you know,” said Vintar. “More than you know.”

“Yes,” Serbitar told Rek as they sat within the oak-paneled study overlooking the courtyard. “Yes, we can read minds. But I assure you we will not again attempt to read yours or that of your companion.”

“Why did he do that to me?” asked Rek.

“Menahem is the eyes of the Thirty. He had to see that you were worthy to ask of us … the service. You expect us to fight with your forces, to analyze enemy tactics, and to use our skills in defense of a fortress about which we care nothing. The messenger has to be worthy.”

“But I am not the messenger; I am merely a companion.”

“We shall see … How long have you known of your … affliction?”

Rek turned his gaze to the window and the balcony beyond. A wren landed on the railing, sharpened his beak on the stone, and then flew off. Light clouds were forming, fleece islands in the clear blue of the sky.

“It has happened only twice. Both times in the Sathuli wars. Once when we were surrounded after a dawn raid on a village and the second time when I was part of a guard unit for a spice caravan.”

“It is common among warriors,” said Serbitar. “It is a gift of fear.”

“It saved my life both times, but it scares me,” said Rek. “It is as if someone else takes over my mind and body.”

“But that is not so, I assure you. It is you alone. Do not fear what you are, Rek—may I call you Rek?”

“Of course.”

“I did not wish to be overly familiar. It is a nickname, is it not?”

“A shortened form of Regnak. My foster father, Horeb, shortened it when I was a child. It was a kind of joke. I disliked robust games and never wanted to explore or climb high trees. I wasn’t reckless, he said; so he dropped the ‘less’ and called me Rek. As I said, it’s not much of a joke, but the name stuck.”

“Do you think,” asked Serbitar, “that you will be comfortable at Dros Delnoch?”

Rek smiled. “Are you asking me if I have the nerve?”

“Speaking bluntly? Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I don’t know. Have you?”

The ghost of a smile hovered on the pale, fleshless face as the albino considered the question. His slender fingers tapped gently at the desk top.

“The question is a good one. Yes, I have the nerve. My fears are unconnected with death.”

“You have read my mind,” said Rek. “You tell
me
if I have the nerve. I mean it. I don’t know if I can stand a drawn-out siege; it is said that men fail under such pressure.”

“I cannot tell you,” Serbitar answered, “if you will hold or fail. You are capable of both. I cannot analyze all the permutations of a siege. Ask yourself this: What if Virae fell? Would you stay on?”

“No,” said Rek instantly. “I would saddle a fast horse and be gone. I don’t care about Dros Delnoch. Or the Drenai empire.”

“The Drenai are finished,” said Serbitar. “Their star has fallen.”

“Then you think the Dros will fall?”

“Ultimately it must. But I cannot see that far into the future as yet. The Way of the Mist is strange. Often it will show events still to come, but more often it will show events never to be. It is a perilous path which only the true mystic walks with certainty.”

“The Way of the Mist?” asked Rek.

“I’m sorry, why should you know? It is a road on another plane … a fourth dimension? A journey of the spirit like a dream. Only you direct the dream and see what you desire to see. It is a concept hard to verbalize to a non-speaker.”

“Are you saying your soul can travel outside the body?” asked Rek.

“Oh, yes, that is the easy part. We saw you in Graven Forest outside the cabin. We helped you then by influencing the axman, Grussin.”

“You made him kill Reinard?”

“No. Our powers are not that great. We merely pushed him in a direction he was considering already.”

“I’m not sure I am entirely comfortable knowing you have that sort of power,” said Rek, avoiding the albino’s green eyes.

Serbitar laughed, his eyes sparkling, his pale face mirroring his joy.

“Friend Rek, I am a man of my word. I promised never to use my gift to read your mind, and I shall not. Nor will any of the Thirty. Do you think we would be priests, forsaking the world, if we wished harm to others? I am the son of an earl, but if I wished, I could be a king, an emperor mightier than Ulric. Do not feel threatened. We must be at ease one with the other. More, we must be friends.”

“Why?” asked Rek.

“Because we are about to share a moment which comes only once in a lifetime,” said Serbitar. “We are going to die.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Rek. “I do not see that going to Dros Delnoch is just another way of committing suicide. It’s a battle, that’s all. No more, no less than that. A wall can be defended. A smaller force can hold a larger. History is full of examples: Skeln Pass, for example.”

“True,” said Serbitar. “But they are remembered because they are exceptions. Let us deal in facts. The Dros is defended by a force less than a third of the full complement. Morale is low; fear is rife. Ulric has a force in excess of half a million warriors, all willing—lusting even—to die for him in battle. I am a weapon master and a student of war. Dros Delnoch will fall. Clear your mind of any other conclusion.”

“Then why come with us? What will you gain from it?”

“We die,” said Serbitar, “and then live. But I shall say no more of that at this time. I do not wish to depress you, Rek. If it would serve a purpose, I would fill you with hope. But my whole battle strategy will be built around delaying the inevitable. Only then can I function—and serve your cause.”

“I hope you will keep that opinion to yourself,” said Rek. “Virae believes we can hold. I know enough of warfare and morale to tell you plainly that if your theory were to spread among the men, there would be wholesale desertions; we would lose on the first day.”

“I am not a fool, Rek. I say this to
you
because it needs to be said. I shall be your adviser at Delnoch, and you will need me to speak the truth. I shall have no real dealings with the soldiers, neither will the Thirty. Men will avoid us, anyway, once they know what we are.”

“Perhaps. Why do you say you will be my adviser? Earl Delnar commands; I shall not even be an officer there.”

“Let us say,” said Serbitar, “that I will be the adviser to your cause. Time will explain all far better than I. Have I depressed you?”

“Not at all. You have told me everything is hopeless, we are all dead men, and the Drenai are finished. Depressed? Not at all!”

Serbitar laughed and clapped his hands. “I like you, Rek,” he said. “I think you will hold firm.”

“I will hold firm, all right,” said Rek, smiling. “Because I will know that at the last wall I will have two horses waiting ready saddled. By the way, do you not have anything stronger than water to drink?”

“Sadly, no,” answered Serbitar. “Alcohol inhibits our strength. If you need spirits, however, there is a village nearby, and I can have someone ride out for you to purchase some.”