Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (13 page)

“Do you think I want to fight? I am nearing sixty years of age. I love the Source and all things that grow or move. I believe life is the greatest gift in all the universe. But there is real evil in the world, and it must be fought. Overcome. Then others will have the opportunity to see the joy of life.”

“Don’t say any more,” snapped Decado. “Not another damned word!” Years of suppressed emotion roared through him, filling his senses, and forgotten anger lashed him with whips of fire. What a fool he had been, hiding from the world, grubbing in the soil like a sweating peasant!

He moved to a set of armor placed to the right of the rest, and his hand reached down to curl around the ivory hilt. With one smooth movement he swept the blade into the air, his muscles pulsing with the thrill of the weapon. Its blade was silver steel and razor-sharp, and the balance was perfection. He turned to the abbot, and where he had once seen a lord, he now saw an old man with watery eyes.

“This quest of yours, does it involve Tenaka Khan?”

“Yes, my son.”

“Don’t call me that, priest! Not ever again. I don’t blame you—I was the fool for believing in you. All right, I will fight with your priests, but only because it will aid my friends. But do not seek to give me orders.”

“I will not be in a position to order you, Decado. Even now you have moved to your own armor.”

“
My
armor?”

“You recognize the rune on the helm?”

“It is the number one in the Elder script.”

“It was Serbitar’s armor. You will wear it.”

“He was the leader, was he not?”

“As you will be.”

“So that is my lot,” said Decado, “to lead a motley crew of priests as they play at war. Very well; I can take a joke as well as any man.”

Decado began to laugh. The abbot closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer, for through the laughter he felt the cry of anguish from Decado’s tortured soul. Despair swept through the priest, and he left the room, the manic laughter echoing after him.

What have you done, Abaddon? he asked himself.

Tears were in his eyes as he reached his room, and once inside, he fell to his knees.

Decado stumbled from the chamber and returned to his garden, staring in disbelief at the tidy rows of vegetables, the neat hedges, and the carefully pruned trees.

He walked on to his hut, kicking open the door.

Less than an hour before this had been home, a home he loved. Contentment had been his.

Now the shack was a hovel, and he left it and wandered to his flower garden. The white rose carried three new buds. Anger coursed through him, and he grasped the plant, ready to rip it from the ground. Then he stopped and slowly released it, staring at his hand and then back at the plant. Not one thorn had ripped his flesh. Gently he smoothed out the crushed leaves and began to sob, meaningless sounds that became two words.

“I’m sorry,” he told his rose.

The Thirty assembled in the lower courtyard, saddling their mounts. The horses still bore their winter coats, but they were strong mountain-bred beasts, and they could run like the wind. Decado chose a bay mare; he saddled it swiftly and then vaulted to its back, sweeping out his white cloak behind him and settling it over the saddle in Dragon fashion. Serbitar’s armor fitted him as his own never had; it felt smooth, like a second skin.

The abbot, Abaddon, stepped into the saddle of a chestnut gelding and moved alongside Decado.

Decado swung in the saddle, watching the warrior-priests as they silently mounted. He had to admit that they moved well. Each adjusted his cloak precisely as Decado had done. Abaddon gazed wistfully at his erstwhile disciple; Decado had shaved his chin clean and bound his long dark hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes were bright and alive, and a half-mocking smile was on his lips.

The night before Decado had been formally introduced to his lieutenants: Acuas, the heart of the Thirty; Balan, the eyes of the Thirty; and Katan, the soul of the Thirty.

“If you want to be warriors,” he had told them, “then do as I say, when I say it. The abbot tells me that there is a force hunting Tenaka Khan. We are to intercept it. The men we shall fight are true warriors, so I am told. Let us hope your quest does not end at their hands.”

“It is your quest, too, Brother,” said Katan with a gentle smile.

“There is no man alive who can slay me. And if you priests fall like wheat, I shall not stay.”

“Is not a leader obliged to stand by his men?” Balan asked, an edge of anger in his voice.

“Leader? This is all a priestly farce, but very well, I will play the game. But I will not die with you.”

“Will you join us in prayer?” said Acuas.

“No. You pray for me! I have spent too many years wasting my time in that fruitless exercise.”

“We have always prayed for you,” said Katan.

“Pray for yourselves! Pray that when you meet these Dark Templars your bowels do not turn to water.”

With that he had left them. Now he raised his arms and led the troop through the temple gates and out over the Sentran Plain.

“Are you sure this choice is wise?” Katan mind-pulsed to Abaddon.

“It is not my choice, my son.”

“He is a man consumed by anger.”

“The Source knows our needs. Do you remember Estin?”

“Yes, poor man. So wise—he would have been a good leader,” said Katan.

“Indeed he would. Courageous yet kind, strong yet gentle, and possessed of intellect without arrogance. But he died. And on the day he died Decado appeared at our gates seeking sanctuary from the world.”

“But suppose, Lord Abbot, that it was not the Source that sent him?”

“ ‘Lord Abbot’ no longer, Katan. Merely ‘Abaddon.’ ”

The older man severed the mind link, and it was some moments before Katan realized his question had not been answered.

The years fled from Decado. Once more he was in the saddle, the wind in his hair. Once more the drumming of hooves sounded on the plain and the stirring in his blood brought his youth pounding back to his mind …

The Dragon sweeping down on the Nadir raiders. Chaos, confusion, blood, and terror. Broken men and broken screams and crows shrieking their joy in the dark skies above.

And then later, in one mercenary war after another in the most far-flung nations of the world. Always Decado walked away from the battle, not a wound on his slender form, while his enemies journeyed to whatever hells they believed in, shadowed and forgotten.

The image of Tenaka Khan floated in Decado’s mind.

Now, there was a warrior! How many times had Decado fallen asleep dreaming of a battle with Tenaka Khan? Ice and shadow in the dance of blades.

They had fought many times. With wooden blades or tipped foils. Even with blunted sabers. Honors were even. But such contests were meaningless. Only when death rested on the blades could a true victor emerge.

Decado’s thoughts were interrupted as the yellow-bearded Acuas cantered alongside.

“It will be close, Decado. The Templars have found their trail at some devastated village. They will have made their move by morning.”

“How soon can we reach them?”

“Dawn at the earliest.”

“Back to your prayers, then, yellowbeard. And make them powerful.”

He spurred his horse to a gallop, and the Thirty followed him.

It was close to dawn, and the companions had ridden through most of the night, stopping only for an hour to rest the horses. The Skoda range loomed ahead, and Tenaka was anxious to reach their sanctuary. The sun, hidden now beyond the eastern horizon, was stirring, and the stars faded as a pink glow painted the sky.

The riders left a grove of trees and emerged onto a broad grassland swirling in mist. Tenaka felt a sudden chill touch his bones; he shivered and drew his cloak about him. He was tired and discontented. He had not spoken to Renya since their fight in the forest, yet he thought of her constantly. Far from removing her from his mind by turning on her, he had succeeded only in bringing himself fresh misery. And yet he was incapable of crossing the gulf he had opened between them. He glanced back to where she rode alongside Ananais, laughing at some jest, then turned away.

Ahead, like dark demons out of the past, twenty riders waited in a line. They sat their horses immobile, black cloaks flapping in the breeze. Tenaka reined his mount some fifty paces from the center of their line, and his companions rode alongside.

“What in hell’s name are they?” asked Ananais.

“They are seeking me,” answered Tenaka. “They came at me in a dream.”

“I don’t wish to appear defeatist, but there are rather too many for us to handle. Do we run?”

“From these men you cannot run,” Tenaka said tonelessly as he dismounted.

The twenty riders followed course, walking forward slowly through the mist, and it seemed to Renya that they moved like the shades of the dead on a ghostly sea. Their armor was jet, helms covered their faces, dark swords were in their hands. Tenaka went forward to meet them, hand on sword hilt.

Ananais shook his head. A strange trancelike state had come upon him, leaving him a powerless observer. He slid from the saddle, drew his sword, and joined Tenaka.

The Dark Templars halted, and their leader stepped forward.

“We have no commission to kill you yet, Ananais,” he said.

“I don’t die easily,” said Ananais. He was about to add an insult, but the words froze in his mouth as a terrible fear struck him like a blast of icy air. He began to tremble, and the urge to run rose in him.

“You die as easily as any other mortal,” said the man. “Go back! Ride away to whatever doom awaits you.”

Ananais said nothing; he swallowed hard and looked at Tenaka. His friend’s face was bone-white, and it was obvious that the same fear had washed over him.

Galand and Parsal moved alongside them, swords in hand.

“Do you think to stand against us?” said the leader. “A hundred men could not stand against us. Listen to my words and hear the truth—feel it through your terror.”

The fear increased, and the horses grew skittish, whinnying their alarm. Scaler and Belder leapt from the saddles, sensing that the beasts were about to bolt. Pagan leaned forward, patting his horse’s neck; the beast settled down, but its ears were flat against its skull and he knew it was close to panic. Valtaya and Renya jumped clear as their horses bolted, then helped the village woman, Parise, dismount.

Shielding her baby, who had begun to scream, Parise lay down on the ground, shaking uncontrollably.

Pagan dismounted and drew his sword, walking forward slowly to stand beside Tenaka and the others. Belder and Scaler followed.

“Draw your sword,” whispered Renya, but Scaler ignored her. It was all he could do to muster enough courage to stand alongside Tenaka Khan. Any thoughts of actually fighting beside him were buried under the weight of his terror.

“Foolish,” said the leader contemptuously, “like lambs to the slaughter!” The Dark Templars advanced.

Tenaka struggled to overcome his panic, but his limbs felt leaden as his confidence drained away. He knew dark magic was being used against him, but the knowledge was not enough. He felt like a child stalked by a leopard.

Fight it! he told himself. Where is your courage?

Suddenly, as in his dream, the terror passed and strength flowed to his limbs. He knew without turning that the white knights had returned, this time in the flesh.

The Templars halted their advance, and Padaxes cursed softly as the Thirty moved into sight. Outnumbered now, he considered his options. Calling on the power of the spirit, he probed his enemies, meeting a wall of force that resisted his efforts … Except around the warrior at the center—this man was no mystic. Padaxes was no stranger to the legends of the Thirty—his own temples had been built to parody theirs—and he recognized the rune on the man’s helm.

A nonmystic as leader? An idea formed in his mind.

“Much blood will be shed here today,” he called, “unless we settle this as captains.”

Abaddon grasped Decado’s arm as he moved forward. “No, Decado; you do not understand his power.”

“He is a man; that is all,” answered the other.

“No, he is far more—he has the power of chaos. If someone must fight him, let it be Acuas.”

“Am I not leader in this force of yours?”

“Yes, but …”

“There are no buts. Obey me!” Pulling himself free, Decado moved on, halting a few feet from the black-armored Padaxes.

“What do you suggest, Templar?”

“A duel between captains, the loser’s men leaving the field.”

“I want more,” said Decado coldly. “Far more!”

“Name it.”

“I have studied much of the ways of mystics. It is … was … part of my former calling. It is said that in ancient wars champions carried the souls of their armies within them, and when they died, their armies died.”

“That is so,” Padaxes said, disguising his joy.

“Then that is what I demand.”

“It shall be so. I swear it by the spirit!”

“Swear nothing to me, warrior. Your oaths count for nothing. Prove it!”

“It will take a little time. I shall conduct the rites first and trust your word that you will follow,” said Padaxes. Decado nodded and walked back to the others.

“You cannot do this thing, Decado,” said Acuas. “You doom us all!”

“Suddenly the game is not to your liking?” snapped Decado.

“It is not that. This man, your enemy, has powers you do not possess. He can read your mind, sense your every move before you make it. How on earth can you defeat him?”

Decado laughed. “Am I still your leader?”

Acuas flicked a glance at the former abbot. “Yes,” he said, “you are the leader.”

“Then, when he has finished his ritual, you will align the life force of the Thirty to mine.”

“Tell me this before I die,” said Acuas gently. “Why are you sacrificing yourself in this way? Why do you doom your friends?”

Decado shrugged. “Who can say?”

The Dark Templars fell to their knees before Padaxes as he intoned the names of the lower demons, calling on the chaos spirit, his voice rising to a scream. The sun breasted the eastern horizon, yet strangely, no light fell upon the plain.