Legend

6

With Vintar standing beside him, Serbitar watched from a high balcony as the two riders approached the monastery, cantering their horses towards the northern gate. Grass showed in patches on the snow-covered fields as a warm spring wind eased in from the west.

"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 good. 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 horsehair 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 long-sword 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 armoured 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 towards the warrior, his mind racing, his eyes checking for weak points in the armoured defences. The man wore a moulded breastplate over a mail-shirt of silver steel. Protecting his neck was a silver torque. His legs were covered to the thigh in leather troos, 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 towards the black and silver helm. Startled, Menahem hastily parried and a second blow almost got through. The warrior stepped backwards, 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 gravitate between defence and attack, for despite a desire to win there is an equal desire not to lose. But the baresark loses all fear; his is all-out attack, and invariably he takes his opponent with him even if he falls. 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, fuelled 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-panelled 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 analyse enemy tactics and to use our skills in defence 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 spices 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 analyse 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 verbalise 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 axeman, 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 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 weaponmaster 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 advisor 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 advisor? 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, that 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."

"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 rumbled with his breastplate strap. He could not have looked less 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 armour against the desk and poured himself some water, offering the jug to Virae who shook his 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 organisation and planning. We will know the enemy's plans. We can aid you in thwarting them. Tactically we can organise the defences and militarily we can fight like a hundred. But our price is high."

"My father has deposited 10,000 gold Raq in Ven-tria," 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 us 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 the same question she had asked 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, nor 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 marvellous 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 any more. 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 round 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.