Legend

16

Blessed by a following wind, Wastrel sped north until at last the silver grey towers of Dros Purdol broke the line of the horizon. The ship entered the harbour a little before noon, piloting past the Drenai war triremes and the merchant vessels anchored in the bay.

On the milling docks street traders sold charms, ornaments, weapons and blankets to mariners, while burly dockers carried provisions up swaying gangplanks, stacking cargo and checking loads. All was noise and apparent confusion.

The harbour-side was rich in colour and the hectic pace of city life and Rek felt a pang of regret to be leaving the ship. As Serbitar led The Thirty ashore, Rek and Virae said their goodbyes to the captain.

"With one exception, it has been a more than pleasant voyage," Virae told him. "I thank you for your courtesy."

"I was glad to be of service, my lady. I will forward the marriage papers to Drenan on my return. It was a "first" for me. I have never taken part in the wedding of an earl's daughter — much less conducted one. I wish you well." Bending forward he kissed her hand. He wanted to add, "Long life and happiness," but he knew their destination.

Virae strode down the gangplank as Rek gripped the captain's hand. He was surprised when the man embraced him.

"May your sword arm be strong, your spirit lucky and your horse swift when the time comes," he said.

Rek grinned. "The first two I will need. As to the horse, do you believe that lady will consider flight?"

"No, she's a wonderful lass. Be lucky."

"I will try hard," said Rek.

At the quayside a young red-caped officer eased his way through the crowd to confront Serbitar.

"Your business in Dros Purdol?" he asked.

"We are travelling to Delnoch as soon as we can obtain horses," answered the albino.

"The fortress will soon be under siege, sir. Are you aware of the coming war?"

"We are. We travel with the Lady Virae, daughter of Earl Delnar, and her husband Regnak."

Seeing Virae, the officer bowed: "A pleasure, my lady. We met at your eighteenth birthday celebration last year. You probably won't remember me."

"On the contrary, Dun Degas! We danced and I trod on your foot. You were most kind and took the blame."

Degas smiled and bowed again. How she had changed, he thought! Where was the clumsy girl who had contrived to trip on the hem of her skirt? Who had blushed as red as the wine when, during a heated conversation, she had crushed a crystal goblet, drenching the woman to her right. What had changed? She was the same woman-girl he remembered — her hair mousy blonde, her mouth too wide, her brows thunder-dark over deep set eyes. He saw her smile as Rek stepped forward and his question was answered. She had become desirable.

"What are you thinking, Degas?" she asked. "You look far away."

"My apologies, my lady. I was thinking Earl Pindak will be delighted to receive you."

"You will have to convey my regrets," said Virae, "for we must leave as soon as possible. Where can we purchase mounts?"

"I am sure we can find you good horses," said Degas. "It is a shame you did not arrive sooner, since four days ago we sent three hundred men to Delnoch to aid the defence. You could have travelled with them — it would have been safer. The Sathuli have grown bold since the Nadir threat."

"We shall get there," said the tall man with Virae. Degas's eyes measured him: a soldier, he thought, or has been at some time. Carries himself well. Degas directed the party to a large inn, promising to supply the horses within two hours.

True to his word, he returned with a troop of Drenai cavalrymen riding thirty-two horses. They were not of the pedigree of the mounts left behind in Lentria, being mustangs bred for mountain work, but they were sturdy animals. When the horses had been allocated and the provisions packed, Degas approached Rek.

"There is no charge for these mounts, but I would be obliged if you could deliver these despatches to the Earl. They came by sea from Drenan yesterday and missed our force. The one with the red seal is from Abalayn."

"The Earl will receive them," said Rek. "Thank you for your help."

"It is nothing. Good luck!" The officer moved on to make his farewells to Virae. Pushing the letters into the saddle-bag of his roan mare, Rek mounted and led the party west from Purdol along the line of the Delnoch mountains. Serbitar cantered alongside him as they entered the first of the deep woods beyond the town.

"You look troubled," said Rek.

"Yes. There will be outlaws, renegades, perhaps deserters, and certainly Sathuli tribesmen along our route."

"But that is not what troubles you?"

"You are perceptive," said Serbitar.

"How true. But then I saw the corpse walk."

"Indeed you did," said Serbitar.

"You have hedged about that night for long enough," said Rek. "Now give me the truth of it. Do you know what it was?"

"Vintar believes it to be a demon summoned by Nosta Khan. He is the head shaman to Ulric's Wolfs-head tribe — and therefore Lord of all Nadir shaman. He is old and it is said he first served Ulric's greatgrandfather. He is a man steeped in evil."

"And his powers are greater than yours?"

"Individually, yes. Collectively? I don't think so. We are presently stopping him from entering Delnoch, but he in turn has cast a veil over the fortress and we cannot enter."

"Will he attack us again?" asked Rek.

"Assuredly. The question is what method he will choose."

"I think I will leave you to worry about that," said Rek. "I can only take in so much gloom in one day."

Serbitar did not answer him. Rek reined his mount and waited for Virae.

That night they camped by a mountain stream, but lit no fires. In the early evening Vintar recited poetry, his voice soft and melodious, his words evocative.

"They are his own work," Serbitar whispered to Virae, "though he will not own to them. I know not why. He is a fine poet."

"But they are so sad," she said.

"All beauty is sad," replied the albino. "For it fades."

He left her and retreated to a nearby willow, sitting with his back to the tree, a silver ghost in the moonlight.

Arbedark joined Rek and Virae, handing them honey cakes he had purchased at the port. Rek glanced over at the lonely figure of the albino.

"He travels," said Arbedark. "Alone."

As the dawn bird-song began, Rek groaned and eased his aching body away from the probing tree roots which were denting his side. His eyes opened. Most of The Thirty were still asleep, though tall Antaheim stood sentry by the stream. At the willow Serbitar remained where he had been during the recital.

Rek sat up and stretched, his mouth dry. Pushing back his blanket he walked to the horses, removed his pack, rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen and went to the stream. Taking out a bar of soap, he stripped the shirt from his chest and knelt by the swift rushing water.

"Please don't do that," said Antaheim.

"What?"

The tall warrior walked across to him, squatting by his side. "The soap bubbles will carry on downstream. It is not wise thus to announce our movements."

Rek cursed himself for a fool and apologised swiftly.

"That is not necessary. I am sorry to have intruded. Do you see that plant there, by the lichen rock?"

Rek twisted, then nodded. "It is a lemon mint. Wash in the water, then crush some of the leaves and clean your body. It will refresh you and create… a more pleasant aroma."

"Thank you. Is Serbitar still travelling?"

"He should not be. I will seek him." Antaheim closed his eyes for several seconds. When they opened again, Rek recognised panic and the warrior ran from the stream. In that moment all members of The Thirty surged from their blankets and raced to Serbitar by the willow.

Rek dropped his shirt and soap on the bank and moved to join them. Vintar was bending over the albino's still form; he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the young leader's slender face. For long moments he remained thus. Sweat broke out upon his forehead and he began to sway. When he lifted a hand, Menahem joined him instantly, raising Serbitar's head. The swarthy warrior lifted the albino's right eyelid: the iris was red as blood.

Virae dropped to her knees beside Rek. "His eyes are green normally," she said. "What is happening?"

"I don't know," said Rek.

Antaheim rose from the group and sprinted for the undergrowth, returning minutes later with what appeared to be an armful of vine leaves which he tipped to the ground. Gathering dried twigs, he fashioned a small fire; then, setting up a tripod of branches, he hung a pot above the flames, filled it with water and crushed the leaves between his palms, dropping them into the pot. Soon the water began to bubble and a sweet aroma filled the air. Antaheim lifted the pan from the flames, adding cold water from his canteen, then transferred the green liquid to a leather-covered pottery mug which he passed to Menahem. Slowly they opened Serbitar's mouth and, while Vintar held the albino's nostrils, they poured in the liquid. Serbitar gagged and swallowed and Vintar released his nose. Menahem laid his head back on the grass and Antaheim swiftly killed the fire. There had been no smoke.

"What's going on?" asked Rek as Vintar approached him.

"We will talk later," said Vintar. "Now I must rest." He stumbled to his blankets and lay down, slipping instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"I feel like a one-legged man in a foot race," said Rek.

Menahem joined them, his dark face grey with exhaustion as he sipped water from a leather canteen. He stretched his long legs out on the grass and lay on his side, supporting himself on his elbow. He turned towards Rek.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," he said, "but I did overhear you. You must forgive Vintar. He is older than the rest of us and the strain of the hunt proved too much for him."

"The hunt? What hunt?" asked Virae.

"We sought Serbitar. He had journeyed far and the path was sundered. He could not return and we had to find him. Vintar guessed rightly that he had retreated into the mists and taken his chances. He had to seek him."

"I'm sorry, Menahem. You look worn out," said Rek, "but try to remember that we do not know what you are talking about. Into the mists? What the devil does that mean?"

Menahem sighed. "How can one explain colours to a blind man?"

"One says," snapped Rek, "that red is like silk, blue is like cool water, and yellow is like sunshine on the face."

"Forgive me, Rek. I am tired, I did not mean to be rude," said Menahem. "I cannot explain the mists to you as I understand them. But I will try to give you some idea.

"There are many futures but only one past. When we travel beyond ourselves we walk a straight path, journeying much as we are doing now. We direct ourselves over vast distances. But the path back remains solid, for it is locked in our memories. Do you understand?"

"So far," said Rek. "Virae?"

"I'm not an idiot, Rek."

"Sorry. Go on, Menahem."

"Now try to imagine there are other paths. Not just from, say, Drenan to Delnoch, but from today into tomorrow. Tomorrow has not yet happened and the possibilities for it are endless. Each one of us makes a decision that will affect tomorrow. But let us say we do travel into tomorrow. Then we are faced with a multitude of paths, gossamer-thin and shifting. In one tomorrow Dros Delnoch has already fallen, in another it has been saved, or is about to fall or about to be saved. Already we have four paths. Which is true? And when we tread the path, how do we return to today, which from where we are standing is a multitude of yesterdays? To which do we return? Serbitar journeyed far beyond tomorrow. And Vintar found him as we held the path in sight."

"You used the wrong analogy," said Rek. "It is nothing like explaining colours 'to a blind man.' Rather is it more like teaching archery to a rock. I haven't the remotest idea what you are talking about. Will Serbitar be all right?"

"We don't know yet. If he lives, he will have information of great value."

"What happened to his eyes? How did they change colour?" asked Virae.

"Serbitar is an albino — a true albino. He needs certain herbs in order to maintain his strength. Last night he journeyed too far and lost his way. It was foolhardy. But his heartbeat is strong and he is now resting."

"Then he won't die?" said Rek.

"That we cannot say. He travelled a path which stretched his mind. It could be he will suffer the Pull; this happens sometimes to Travellers. They move so far from themselves that they just drift, like smoke. If his spirit is broken, it will pass from him and return to the mist."

"Can't you do anything?"

"We have done all we can. We cannot hold him forever."

"When will we know?" asked Rek.

"When he awakes. If he awakes."

The long morning wore on and Serbitar still lay unmoving. The Thirty volunteered no conversation and Virae had walked upstream to bathe. Bored and tired, Rek took the despatches from his pouch. The bulky scroll sealed in red wax was addressed to Earl Delnar. Rek broke the seal and spread the letter wide. In flowing script the message read:

My dear friend,

Even as you read this, our intelligence is that Nadir will be upon you. We have tried repeatedly to secure peace, having offered all that we have save the right to govern ourselves as a free people. Ulric will have none of this — he wishes to secure for himself a kingdom stretching between the northern and southern seas.

I know the Dros cannot hold and I therefore rescind my order that you fight to the last. It will be a battle without profit and without hope.

Woundweaver is — needless to say — against this policy, and has made it clear that he will take his army into the hills as a raiding force should the Nadir be allowed to pass to the Sentran Plain.

You are an old soldier and the decision must be yours.

Pin the blame for surrender upon me. It is mine by right, since I have brought the Drenai people to this parlous state.

Do not think of me unkindly. I have always tried to do that which was best for my people.

But perhaps the years have told more heavily upon me than I realised, for my wisdom has been lacking in my dealings with Ulric.

It was signed simply "Abalayn', and below the signature was the red seal of the Drenai dragon.

Rek re-folded the scroll and returned it to his saddle bag.

Surrender… A helping hand at the brink of the abyss.

Virae returned from the stream, her hair dripping and her features flushed.

"Ye gods, that was good!" she said, sitting beside him. "Why the long face? Serbitar not awake yet?"

"No. Tell me, what would your father have done if Abalayn had told him to surrender the Dros?"

"He would never have given that order to my father."

"But if he had?" insisted Rek.

"The point does not arise. Why do you always ask questions that have no relevance?"

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Listen to me. What would he have done?"

"He would have refused. Abalayn would know that my father is the lord of Dros Delnoch, the High Warden of the North. He can be relieved of command — but not ordered to give up the fortress."

"Suppose Abalayn had then left the choice to Delnar. What then?"

"He would have fought to the last; it was his way. Now will you tell me what all this is about?"

"The despatch Degas gave me for your father. It is a letter from Abalayn withdrawing his 'fight to the last' order."

"How dare you open that?" stormed Virae. "It was addressed to my father and should have been given to me. How dare you!" Her face red with fury, she suddenly struck out at him. When he parried the blow, she launched another and without thinking he struck her, flat-handed, sprawling her to the grass.

She lay there, eyes blazing.

"I'll tell you how I dare," he said, suppressing his anger with great effort. "Because I am the Earl. And if Delnar is dead, then it was addressed to me. Which means that the decision to fight is mine. As is the decision to open the gates to the Nadir."

"That's what you want, isn't it? A way out?" She rose to her feet, snatching up her leather jerkin.

"Think what you like," he said. "It doesn't matter to me. Anyway, I should have known better than to talk to you about the letter. I'd forgotten how much this war means to you. You can't wait to see the crows feast, can you? Can't wait for the bodies to start swelling and rotting! You hear me?" he shouted at her back as she walked away.

"Trouble, my friend?" asked Vintar as he sat down opposite the angry Rek.

"Nothing whatsoever to do with you," snapped the new Earl.

"Of that I don't doubt," said Vintar calmly. "But I might be able to help. After all, I've known Virae for many years."

"I'm sorry, Vintar. That was unforgivable of me."

"I have found in my life, Rek, that there are a few actions which are unforgivable. And certainly there are no words said that carry such a penalty. It is a man's lot, I fear, to strike out when he has suffered hurt. Now, can I help?"

Rek told him about the despatch and Virae's reaction.

"A thorny problem, my boy. What will you do?"

"I have not yet made up my mind."

"That is as well. No one should make a hasty decision over such a weighty matter. Do not be too hard on Virae, she is now sitting by the stream and feeling very miserable. She is desperately sorry for what she said and is merely waiting for you to apologise so that she can tell you it was all her own fault."

"I'll be damned if I will apologise," said Rek.

"It will be a frosty ride if you do not," said the Abbot.

A soft moan came from the sleeping Serbitar. Instantly Vintar, Menahem, Arbedark and Rek moved over to him. The albino's eyes fluttered and opened… Once more they were the green of rose leaves. He smiled at Vintar.

"Thank you, Lord Abbot," he whispered. Vintar patted his face gently.

"Are you all right?" asked Rek.

Serbitar smiled. "I am well. Weak but well."

"What happened?" asked Rek.

"Nosta Khan. I tried to force entry at the fortress and was flung into the outer mists. I was lost… broken. I saw futures that were terrible and chaos beyond all imagining. I fled." He lowered his eyes. "I fled in panic, I know not where or when."

"Speak no more, Serbitar," said Vintar. "Rest now."

"I cannot rest," said the albino, struggling to rise. "Help me, Rek."

"Maybe you should rest, as Vintar says," Rek told him.

"No. Listen to me. I did enter Delnoch and I saw death there. Terrible death!"

"The Nadir are there already?" asked Rek.

"No. Be silent. I could not see the man clearly, but I saw the Musif well being poisoned behind Wall Two. Anyone who drinks from that well will die."

"But we should arrive before the fall of Wall One," said Rek. "And surely they will not need the Musif well until then?"

"That is not the point. Eldibar, or Wall One as you call it, is indefensible. It is too wide; any capable commander will give it up. Don't you understand? That's why the traitor poisoned the other well. Druss is bound to fight his first battle there and the men will be fed that day at dawn. By midday the deaths will begin, and by dusk you will have an army of ghosts."

"We must ride," said Rek. "Now! Get him on a horse."

Rek ran to find Virae as The Thirty saddled their mounts. Vintar and Arbedark helped Serbitar to his feet.

"There was more, was there not?" said Vintar.

"Aye, but some tragedies are best left unspoken."

For three days they rode in the shadow of the Delnoch range into deep glens, and over wooded hills. They rode swiftly but with caution, Menahem scouting ahead and pulsing messages to Serbitar. Virae had said little since the argument and avoided Rek studiously. He in turn gave no ground and made no attempt to breach the silence, though it hurt him deeply.

On the morning of the fourth day, as they breasted a small hill above thick woods, Serbitar held up a hand to halt the column.

"What's wrong?" asked Rek, drawing alongside.

"I have lost contact with Menahem."

"Trouble?"

"I don't know. He could have been thrown from his horse."

"Let us go and find out," said Rek, spurring the mare.

"No!" called Serbitar, but the horse was already on the move downhill and gathering speed. Rek tugged at the reins to bring the animal's head up, then leaned back in the saddle as the beast slithered to the foot of the hill. Once more on firm ground Rek glanced about him. Amongst the trees he could see Menahem's grey standing with head down, and beyond the warrior himself lying face down on the grass. Rek cantered the mare towards him, but as he passed under the first tree a whisper of movement alerted him and he flung himself from his saddle as a man leapt from the branches. Rek landed on his side, rolled and regained his feet, dragging his sword free of its scabbard. His attacker was joined by two others, all wore the flowing white robes of the Sathuli.

Rek backed towards the fallen Menahem and glanced down. The warrior's head was bleeding at the temple. Slingshot, Rek realised, but had no chance to check if the priest was still alive. Other Sathuli now crept from the undergrowth, their broad tulwars and long knives in hand.

Slowly they advanced, grins splitting their dark, bearded features. Rek grinned back.

"This is a good day to die," he said. "Why don't you join me?"

He slid his right hand further up the hilt of his sword, making room for his left. This was no time for fancy sword-play; it would be hack and stand, two-handed. Once again he felt a strange sense of departure that heralded the baresark rage. This time he welcomed it.

With an ear-piercing scream he attacked them all, slashing through theàthroat of the first man as his mouth opened in astonishment. Then he was among them,àhis blade a whistling arc of bright light and crimson death. Momentarily stunned by his assault they fell back, then leapt forward again screaming their own war cries. More tribesmen burst from the undergrowthàbehind him as the thunder of hooves was heard.

Rek was not aware of the arrival of The Thrity. He parried a blow and back-handed his blade across the face of his assailant, stepping over the corpse to engage yet another tribesman.

Serbitar fought in vain to establish a defensive ring that could include Rek. His slender blade swept out, kissing and killing with surgical precision. Even Vintar, the oldest and least capable swordsman, found little difficulty in slaying the Sathuli warriors. Savage as they were, they were untutored in fencing skills, relying on ferocity, fearlessness and weight of numbers to wear down a foe. And this tactic would work again, Vintar knew, for they were outnumbered perhaps four to one with no avenue of retreat open to them.

The clash of steel on steel and the cries of the wounded echoed in the small clearing. Virae, cut across the upper arm, disembowelled one man and ducked beneath a slashing tulwar as a new attacker stormed in. Tall Antaheim stepped forward to block a second slash. Arbedark moved through the battle like a dancer; a short sword in each hand, he choreographed death and destruction like a silver ghost of elder legends.

Rek's anger grew. Was it all for this? Meeting Virae, coming to terms with his fears, taking the mantle of Earl? All so that he could die on a tribesman's tulwar in an unnamed wood? He hammered his blade through the clumsy guard of the Sathuli before him, then kicked the falling corpse into the path of a new attacker.

"Enough!" he yelled suddenly, his voice ringing through the trees. "Put up your swords, all of you!" The Thirty obeyed instantly, stepping back and forming a ring of steel about the fallen Menahem, leaving Rek standing alone. The Sathuli slowly lowered their swords, glancing nervously one to another.

All battles, as they knew, followed the same pattern: fight and win, fight and die or fight and run. There was no other way. But the tall one's words were spoken with power and his voice held them momentarily.

"Let your leader step forth," ordered Rek, plunging his sword blade into the ground at his feet and folding his arms, though the Sathuli blades still ringed him.

The men before him stepped aside as a tall broad-shouldered man in robes of blue and white moved forward. He was as tall as Rek, though hawk-nosed and swarthy. A trident beard gave him a sardonic look and the sabre scar from brow to chin completed the impression.

"I am Regnak, Earl of Dros Delnoch," said Rek.

"I am Sathuli — Joachim Sathuli — and I shall kill you," replied the man grimly.

"Matters like this should be settled by men such as you and I," said Rek. "Look about you — everywhere are Sathuli corpses. How many of my men are among them?"

"They will join them soon," said Joachim.

"Why do we not settle this like princes?" said Rek. "You and I alone."

The man's scarred eyebrow lifted. "That would only equal the odds against you. You have no bargaining power, wherefore should I grant you this?"

"Because it will save Sathuli lives. Oh, I know they give their lives gladly, but for what? We carry no provisions, no gold. We have only horses and the Delnoch ranges are full of them. This is now a matter of pride, not of booty. Such matters are for you and I to decide."

"Like all Drenai, you talk a good fight," said the Sathuli, turning away.

"Has fear turned your bowels to water?" asked Rek, softly.

The man turned back, smiling. "Ah, now you seek to anger me. Very well! We will fight. When you die, your men will lay down their swords?"

"Yes."

"And if I die, we allow you to pass?"

"Yes."

"So be it. I swear this on the soul of Mehmet, Blessed be His Name."

Joachim drew a slender scimitar and the Sathulis around Rek moved back to form a circle about the two men. Rek drew his blade from the earth and the battle began.

The Sathuli was an accomplished swordsman and Rek was forced back as soon as the fight started. Serbitar, Virae and the others watched calmly as blade met blade time and again. Parry, riposte, thrust and parry, slash and check. Rek defended frantically at first, then slowly began to counter. The battle wore on, with both men sweating freely. It was obvious to all that they were evenly matched in skill, and virtually identical in strength and reach. Rek's blade sliced the skin above Joachim's shoulder. The scimitar licked out to open a wound on the back of Rek's hand. Both men circled warily, breathing deeply.

Joachim attacked; Rek parried, launching a riposte. Joachim jumped back and they circled again, Arbedark, the finest swordsman of The Thirty, was lost in wonder at their technique.

Not that he could not match it, for he could; rather that his skill was honed by mental powers which the two combatants would never comprehend on a conscious level. Yet both were using the same skills subconsciously. It was as much a battle of minds as of blades, yet even here the men were well-matched.

Serbitar pulsed a question to Arbedark. "It is too close for me to judge. Who will win?"

"I know not," replied Arbedark. "It is fascinating."

Both men were tiring fast. Rek had established a two-handed grip on his longsword, his right arm no longer able to bear the full weight of the blade. He launched an attack which Joachim parried desperately; then his sword caught the scimitar an inch above the hilt — and the curved blade snapped. Rek stepped forward, touching the point of his sword to Joachim's jugular. The swarthy Sathuli did not move but merely gazed back defiantly, his brown eyes meeting Rek's gaze.

"And what is your life worth, Joachim Sathuli?"

"A broken sword," answered Joachim. Rek held out his hand and received the useless hilt.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the surprised Sathuli leader.

"It is simple," answered Rek. "All of us here are as dead men. We ride for Dros Delnoch to face an army the like of which has not been seen before in this world. We shall not survive the summer. You are a warrior, Joachim, and a worthy one. Your life is worth more than a broken blade. We proved nothing by this contest, save that we are men. Before me I have nothing but enemies and war.

"Since we will meet no more in this life, I would like to believe that I have left at least a few friends behind me. Will you take my hand?" Rek sheathed his sword and held out his hand.

The tall Sathuli smiled. "There is a strangeness in this meeting," he said, "for as my blade broke I wondered, in that moment when death faced me, what would I have done had your sword snapped. Tell me, why do you ride to your death?"

"Because I must," said Rek simply.

"So be it, then. You ask me for friendship and I give it, though I have sworn mighty oaths that no Drenai would feel safe on Sathuli land. I give you this friendship because you are a warrior, and because you are to die."

"Tell me, Joachim, as one friend to another, what would you have done if my blade had broken?"

"I would have killed you," said the Sathuli.