Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (40 page)

“You give up too easily,” snarled Druss.

“I’m a realist. And don’t give me any Skeln Pass lectures. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You might as well,” said Druss, slumping into a leather chair. “You have already lost hope.”

Rek turned from the window, eyes blazing. “What is it with you warriors? It is understandable that you talk in clichés but unforgivable if you think in them. Lost hope, indeed! I never
had
any hope. This enterprise was doomed from the start, but we do what we can and what we must. So a young farmer with a wife and children decides to go home. Good! He shows a sense which men like you and I will never understand. They will sing songs about us, but he will ensure that there are people to sing them. He plants. We destroy.

“Anyway, he has played his part and fought like a man. It is criminal that he should feel the need to flee in shame.”

“Why not give them all the chance to go home?” asked Druss. “Then you and I could stand on the walls and invite the Nadir to come at us one at a time like sportsmen.”

Suddenly Rek smiled, tension and anger flowing from him. “I won’t argue with you, Druss,” he said softly. “You are a man I admire above all others. But in this I think you are wrong. Help yourself to wine. I shall be back soon.”

Less than an hour later the earl’s message was being read to all sections.

Bregan brought the news to Gilad as he ate in the shade offered by the field hospital under the towering cliff face of West Kania.

“We can go home,” said Bregan, his face flushed. “We can be there by harvest supper!”

“I don’t understand,” said Gilad. “Have we surrendered?”

“No. The earl says that any who wish to leave can now do so. He says that we can leave with pride, that we have fought like men—and as men, we must be given the right to go home.”

“Are we going to surrender?” asked Gilad, puzzled.

“I don’t think so,” said Bregan.

“Then I shall not go.”

“But the earl says it’s all right!”

“I don’t care what he says.”

“I don’t understand this, Gil. Lots of the others are going. And it is true that we’ve played our part. Haven’t we? I mean, we’ve done our best.”

“I suppose so.” Gilad rubbed his tired eyes and turned to watch the smoke from the fire gully drift lazily skyward. “They did their best, too,” he whispered.

“Who did?”

“Those who died. Those who are still going to die.”

“But the earl says it’s all right. He says that we can leave with our heads held high. Proud.”

“Is that what he says?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my head wouldn’t be high.”

“I don’t understand you, I really don’t. You have said all along that we can’t hold this fortress. Now we have a chance to leave. Why can’t you just accept it and come with us?”

“Because I’m a fool. Give my love to everyone back there.”

“You know I won’t go unless you come, too.”

“Don’t you start being a fool, Breg! You’ve got everything to live for. Just picture little Legan toddling toward you and all the stories you will be able to tell. Go on.
Go!
”

“No. I don’t know why you’re staying, but I shall stay, too.”

“That you must not do,” said Gilad gently. “I want you to go back, I really do. After all, if you don’t, there will be no one to tell them what a hero I am. Seriously, Breg, I would feel so much better if I knew that you were away from all this. The earl’s right. Men like you have played their part. Magnificently.

“And as for me … well, I just want to stay here. I’ve learned so much about myself and about other men. I’m not needed anywhere but here. I’m not necessary. I will never be a farmer, and I have neither the money to be a businessman nor the breeding to be a prince. I’m a misfit. This is where I belong, with all the other misfits. Please, Bregan. Please go!”

There were tears in Bregan’s eyes, and the two men embraced. Then the curly-haired young farmer rose. “I hope everything works out for you, Gil. I’ll tell them all—I promise I will. Good luck!”

“And to you, farmer. Take your ax. They can hang it in the village hall.”

Gilad watched him walk back toward the postern gates and the keep beyond. Bregan turned once and waved. Then he was gone.

Altogether 650 men chose to leave.

Two thousand forty remained. Added to these were Bowman, Caessa, and fifty archers. The other outlaws, having fulfilled their promise, returned to Skultik.

“Too damned few now,” muttered Druss as the meeting ended.

“I never liked crowds, anyway,” said Bowman lightly.

Hogun, Orrin, Rek, and Serbitar remained in their seats as Druss and Bowman wandered out into the night.

“Don’t despair, old horse,” said Bowman, slapping Druss on the back. “Things could be worse, you know.”

“Really? How?”

“Well, we could be out of wine.”

“We
are
out of wine.”

“We are? That’s terrible. I would never have stayed had I known. Luckily, however, I do just happen to have a couple of flagons of Lentrian red stored in my new quarters. So at least we can enjoy tonight. We might even be able to save some for tomorrow.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Druss. “Maybe we could bottle it and lay it down for a couple of months to age a little. Lentrian red, my foot! That stuff of yours is brewed in Skultik from soap, potatoes, and rats’ entrails. You would get more taste from a Nadir slop bucket.”

“You have the advantage of me there, old horse, since I have never tasted a Nadir slop bucket. But my brew does hit the spot rather.”

“I think I’d rather suck a Nadir’s armpit,” muttered Druss.

“Fine, I’ll drink it all myself,” snapped Bowman.

“No need to get touchy, boy. I’m with you. I have always believed that friends should suffer together.”

The artery writhed under Virae’s fingers like a snake, spewing blood into the cavity of the stomach.

“Tighter!” ordered Calvar Syn, his own hands deep in the wound, pushing aside blue slimy entrails as he sought frantically to stem the bleeding within. It was useless; he knew it was useless, but he owed it to the man beneath him to use every ounce of his skill. Despite all his efforts he could feel the life oozing between his fingers. Another stitch, another small Pyrrhic victory.

The man died as the eleventh stitch sealed the stomach wall.

“He’s dead?” asked Virae. Calvar nodded, straightening his back. “But the blood is still flowing,” she said.

“It will do so for a few moments.”

“I really thought he would live,” she whispered. Calvar wiped his bloody hands on a linen cloth and walked around beside her. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her toward him.

“His chances were one in a thousand even if I had stopped the bleeding. The lance cut his spleen, and gangrene was almost certain.”

Her eyes were red, her face gray. She blinked and her body shook, but there were no tears as she looked down at the dead face.

“I thought he had a beard,” she said, confused.

“That was the one before.”

“Oh, yes. He died, too.”

“You should rest.” Putting his arms around her, he led her from the room and out into the ward, past the stacked rows of triple-tiered bunk beds. Orderlies moved quietly among the rows. Everywhere the smell of death and the sweet, nauseous odor of putrefaction were mixed with the antiseptic bitterness of Lorassium juice and hot water scented with lemon mint.

Perhaps it was the unwelcome perfume, but she was surprised to find that the well was not dry and tears could still flow.

He led her to a back room, filled a basin with warm water, and washed the blood from her hands and face, dabbing her gently as if she were a child.

“He told me that I love war,” she said. “But it’s not true. Maybe it was then. I don’t know anymore.”

“Only a fool loves war,” said Calvar, “or a man who has never seen it. The trouble is that the survivors forget about the horrors and remember only the battle lust. They pass on that memory, and other men hunger for it. Put on your cloak and get some air. Then you will feel better.”

“I don’t think I can come back tomorrow, Calvar. I will stay with Rek at the wall.”

“I understand.”

“I feel so helpless watching men die in here.” She smiled, “I don’t like feeling helpless, I’m not used to it.”

He watched her from the doorway, her tall figure draped in a white cloak, the night breeze billowing her hair.

“I feel helpless, too,” he said softly.

The last death had touched him more deeply than it should have, but then, he had known the man, whereas others were but nameless strangers.

Carin, the former miller. Calvar remembered that the man had a wife and son living at Delnoch.

“Well, at least someone will mourn for you, Carin,” he whispered to the stars.

25

R
ek sat and
watched the stars shining high above the keep tower and the passage of an occasional cloud, black against the moonlit sky. The clouds were like cliffs in the sky, jagged and threatening, inexorable and sentient. Rek pulled his gaze from the window and rubbed his eyes. He had known fatigue before but never this soul-numbing weariness, this depression of the spirit. The room was dark now. He had forgotten to light the candles, so intent had he been on the darkening sky. He glanced about him. So open and welcoming during the hours of daylight, the room was now shadow-haunted and empty of life. He was an interloper. He drew his cloak about him.

He missed Virae, but she was working at the field hospital with the exhausted Calvar Syn. Nevertheless the need in him was great, and he rose to go to her. Instead he just stood there. Cursing, he lit the candles. Logs lay ready in the fireplace, so he lit the fire—though it was not cold—and sat in the firm leather chair watching the small flames grow through the kindling and eat into the thicker logs above. The breeze fanned the flame, causing the shadows to dance, and Rek began to relax.

“You fool,” he said to himself as the flames roared and he began to sweat. He removed his cloak and boots and pulled the chair back from the blaze.

A soft tap at the door roused Rek from his thoughts. He called out, and Serbitar entered the room. For a moment Rek did not recognize him; he was without his armor, dressed in a tunic of green, his long white hair tied at the nape of the neck.

“Am I disturbing you, Rek?” he said.

“Not at all. Sit down and join me.”

“Thank you. Are you cold?”

“No. I just like to watch fires burn.”

“I do, too. It helps me think. A primal memory, perhaps, of a warm cave and safety from predatory animals,” said Serbitar.

“I wasn’t alive then—despite my haggard appearance.”

“But you were. The atoms that make up your body are as old as the universe.”

“I have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about, though I don’t doubt that it is all true,” said Rek.

An uneasy silence developed, then both men spoke at once, and Rek laughed. Serbitar smiled and shrugged.

“I am unused to casual conversation. Unskilled.”

“Most people are when it comes down to it. It’s an art,” said Rek. “The thing to do is relax and enjoy the silences. That’s what friends are all about; they are people with whom you can be silent.”

“Truly?”

“My word of honor as an earl.”

“I am glad to see you retain your humor. I would have thought it impossible to do so under the circumstances.”

“Adaptability, my dear Serbitar. You can only spend so long thinking about death—then it becomes boring. I have discovered that my great fear is not of dying but of being a bore.”

“You are seldom boring, my friend.”

“Seldom? ‘Never’ is the word I was looking for.”

“I beg your pardon. ‘Never’ is the word I was, of course, seeking.”

“How will tomorrow be?”

“I cannot say,” answered Serbitar swiftly. “Where is the lady Virae?”

“With Calvar Syn. Half the civilian nurses have fled south.”

“You cannot blame them,” said Serbitar. He stood and walked to the window. “The stars are bright tonight,” he said. “Though I suppose it would be more accurate to say that the angle of the earth makes visibility stronger.”