Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (10 page)

“You don’t drink. There are no women. You eat no meat. What do you do for recreation?”

“We study,” said Serbitar. “And we train, and we plant flowers and raise horses. Our time is well occupied, I can assure you.”

“No wonder you want to go away and die somewhere,” said Rek with feeling.

Virae sat with Vintar in a small sparsely furnished study awash with manuscripts and leather-bound tomes. There was a small desk littered with broken quills and scrawled parchment. She held back a smile as the older man fumbled with his breastplate strap. He could not have looked less like a warrior.

“Can I help you?” she asked, standing up and leaning over the desk.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “It weighs heavily.” He balanced the armor against the desk and poured himself some water, offering the jug to Virae, who shook her head. “I’m sorry the room is such a mess, but I have been hurrying to finish my diary. So much to say, so little time.”

“Bring it with you,” she said.

“I think not. Too many other problems to wrestle with once we are under way. You have changed since I saw you last, Virae.”

“Two years is a long time, Abbot,” she said carefully.

“I think it is the young man with you,” he said, smiling. “He has a great influence.”

“Nonsense. I am the same.”

“Your walk is more assured. You are less clumsy than I remember. He has given you something, I think.”

“Never mind that. What about the Dros?” she snapped, blushing.

“I am sorry, my dear. I did not wish to embarrass you.”

“You have not embarrassed me,” she lied. “Now, about Dros Delnoch. How can you help us?”

“As I told your father two years ago, our help will be in organization and planning. We will know the enemy’s plans. We can aid you in thwarting them. Tactically we can organize the defenses, and militarily we can fight like a hundred. But our price is high.”

“My father has deposited ten thousand gold Raq in Ventria,” she said. “With the merchant Asbidare.”

“Good. Then that is settled. We ride in the morning.”

“May I ask you something?” said Virae. He opened his hands and waited. “Why do you need money?”

“For the next temple of the Thirty. Each temple is financed by the death of the last.”

“Oh. What happens if you don’t die? I mean, supposing we win?” His eyes searched her face for a matter of moments.

“Then we return the money,” he said.

“I see,” she said.

“You are unconvinced?”

“It doesn’t matter. What do you think of Rek?”

“In what way?” asked Vintar.

“Let’s not play games, Father Abbot. I know you can read minds. I want to know what you think of Rek.”

“The question is not precise enough—no, let me finish,” he said, watching her anger rise. “Do you mean as a man, as a warrior, or as a prospective husband for the daughter of an earl?”

“All three, if you like. I don’t know. Just tell me.”

“Very well. Do you believe in destiny?”

“Yes,” she said, remembering that she had asked the same question of Rek. “Yes, I do.”

“Then believe this. You were destined to meet. You are the perfect match. You boost his strengths and counter his weaknesses. What he does for you, you know already. As a man he is not unique or even very special. He has no great talents, is not a poet, a writer, or a philosopher. As a warrior—well, he has a sporadic courage that hides great fears. But he is a man in love. And that will increase his strength and his power to combat his fears. As a husband? In days of peace and plenty, I feel he would be wayward. But for now … he loves you and is prepared to die for you. You can ask no more of a man than that.”

“Why did I meet him now, of all times?” she asked, tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t want him to die. I would kill myself, I think.”

“No, my dear. I don’t think you would, though I agree that you would feel like doing so. Why now? Why not? Live or die, a man and a woman need love. There is a need in the race. We need to share. To belong. Perhaps you will die before the year is out. But remember this: To have may be taken from you; to have had, never. Far better to have tasted love before dying than to die alone.”

“I suppose so. But I would have liked children and a settled home. I would like to have taken Rek to Drenan and shown him off a little. I would like some of those bitches at court to see that a man could love me.” She bit her lip, straining to hold back the tears.

“They are inconsequential. Whether they see you or not will not alter the fact that they were wrong. And it is a little early for despair. It is spring, and it will be many weeks before we reach the Dros. All things can happen in that time. Ulric may have a heart attack or fall from his horse and crush his skull. Abalayn may make another treaty. The attack may come at another fortress. Who knows?”

“I know. You are right. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so full of self-pity. Meeting Rek was marvelous for me. You should have seen him standing up to Reinard’s outlaws. You know of Reinard?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s dead. Anyway, Rek stood up to twenty of them because they were going to take me. Twenty! He would have fought them all. Damn, I’m going to cry!”

“Why should you not cry? You are in love with a man who adores you, and the future looks bleak and empty of hope.” He walked to her, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Virae, it is always harder for the young.”

She rested her head on his chest as the tears ran. He put his arms around her and patted her back. “Can Dros Delnoch hold?” she asked him.

“All things can happen. Did you know Druss is on his way there?”

“He agreed? That is good news.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. Then Rek’s words came back to her. “He’s not senile, is he?”

Vintar laughed aloud. “Druss! Senile? Certainly not. What a wonderful thought! That is one old man who will never be senile. It would mean giving in to something. I used to believe that if Druss wanted night to last longer, he would just reach up and drag the sun back down over the horizon.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes. And his wife, Rowena. A beautiful child. A speaker of rare talent. Gifted even beyond Serbitar.”

“I always thought Rowena was just part of the legend,” said Virae. “Did he really cross the world to find her?”

“Yes,” said Vintar, releasing Virae and returning to his desk. “She was taken prisoner soon after they wed, when the village was attacked by slavers. He hunted her for years. They were a blissfully happy couple. Like you and Rek, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. Soon after Skeln Pass. A weak heart.”

“Poor Druss,” she said. “But he is still strong, you say?” “ ‘When he stares, valleys tremble,’ ” quoted Vintar. “ ‘Where he walks, beasts are silent; when he speaks, mountains tumble; when he fights, armies crumble.’ ”

“But can he still fight?” she pressed.

“I think he will manage a skirmish or two,” said Vintar, roaring with laughter.

7

T
wo days and
twenty-seven leagues from Skoda and Druss, with a mile-eating soldier’s stride, was nearing the lush valleys at the edge of Skultik forest. He was three days march from Dros Delnoch, and evidence of the coming war met his eyes everywhere. Deserted homes, untended fields, and the people he did meet were wary and mistrustful of strangers. They wore defeat like a cloak, Druss thought. Topping a small rise, he found himself looking down on a village of maybe thirty homes, some crudely built, others showing signs of more careful construction. At the center of the hamlet was a square, an inn, and a stable.

Druss rubbed his thigh, trying to ease the rheumatic pain in his swollen right knee. His right shoulder ached, but this was a dull throbbing he could live with, a reminder of past battles when a Ventrian spear had cut under his shoulder blade. But the knee! This would not bear him many more leagues without rest and an ice pack.

He hawked and spit, wiping a huge hand across his bearded lips. You’re an old man, he told himself. There is no point in pretending otherwise. He limped down the hill toward the inn, wondering once more whether he should purchase a mount. His head told him yes; his heart said no. He was Druss the Legend, and he never rode. Tireless, he could walk all night and fight all day. It would be good for morale when Druss walked into Dros Delnoch. Men would say: “Great gods, the old boy’s walked from Skoda.” And others would answer: “Of course he has. That’s Druss. He never rides.”

But his head told him to buy a horse and leave it at the forest’s edge, a mere ten miles from the Dros. And who would be the wiser?

The inn was crowded, but the innkeeper had rooms to spare. Most of the customers were passing through, heading south or west into neutral Vagria. Druss paid his money, took a canvas sack of ice to his room, and sat on the hard bed, pressing it to his swollen knee. He had not been in the main room for long, but long enough to hear some of the conversations and to recognize many of the men there as soldiers. Deserters.

Always in war, he knew, there were men who would sooner ride than die. But many of the young men downstairs had seemed more demoralized than cowardly.

Were things so bad at Delnoch?

He removed the ice and massaged the fluid away from the joint, his thick fingers pressing and probing, his teeth gritted hard against the pain. Satisfied at last, he opened his small pack and removed a length of sturdy cotton bandage, which he wound tightly about the knee, tucking the end into the fold. Then he rolled down his woolen leggings and pulled his black boot onto his foot, grunting as the injured knee tensed. He stood and walked to the window, pushing it open. His knee felt better—not much, but enough. The sky was cloudless and blue, and a soothing breeze ruffled his beard. High overhead an eagle circled.

Druss returned to his pack, removing the crumpled letter from Delnar. He walked to the window for better light and smoothed the parchment open.

The script was writ large, and Druss chuckled again. He was no reader, and Delnar knew it.

My Dearest Comrade,

Even as I write I receive messages about the Nadir army being gathered at Gulgothir. It is plain that Ulric is ready to expand south. I have written to Abalayn, pleading for more men. There are none to be had. I have sent Virae to Vintar—you remember the Abbot of Swords?—to request the Thirty. I clutch at straws, my friend.

I do not know in what health this letter will find you, but it is written in desperation. I need a miracle or the Dros will fall. I know you swore never again to enter the gates, but old wounds heal and my wife is dead. As is your friend Sieben. You and I are the only men living to know the truth of the matter. And I have never spoken of it.

Your name alone will stop the desertions and restore morale. I am plagued on all sides by poor officers, politically appointed, but my heaviest load is Gan Orrin, the commander. He is Abalayn’s nephew and a martinet. He is despised, and yet I cannot replace him. In truth, I no longer command.

I have a cancer. It consumes me daily.

It is unfair of me to tell you of it, for I know I am using my own impending death to ask of you a favor.

Come and fight with us. We need you, Druss. Without you, we are lost. Just as at Skeln. Come as soon as you can.

Your comrade in arms.

Earl Delnar

Druss folded the letter, pushing it into a deep pocket inside his leather jerkin.

“An old man with a swollen knee and an arthritic back. If you’ve pinned your hopes on a miracle, my friend, you will need to seek elsewhere.”

A silvered mirror stood next to a washbasin on an oak chest, and Druss stared hard at his reflection. The eyes were piercing blue, the beard square-cut, the jaw beneath it firm. He pulled his leather helm from his head and scratched the thick mat of gray hair. His thoughts were somber as he replaced the helm and strode downstairs.

At the long bar he ordered ale and listened to the talk around him.

“They say Ulric has a million men,” said one tall youngster. “And you heard what he did at Gulgothir. When the city refused to surrender and he had taken it, he had every second defender hanged and quartered. Six thousand men. They say the air was black with crows. Imagine! Six thousand!”