Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (18 page)

“No fine speeches, lads,” he told them. “We heard last night that the legion is almost upon us. Tomorrow we will be in position to greet them. They are heading for the lower eastern valley, which I am told you call the Demon’s Smile.

“There are about twelve hundred fighting men, all well armed and well horsed. Two hundred of them are archers, the rest lancers and swordsmen.” He paused to let the numbers sink in and watched men exchange glances, noting with pleasure the absence of fear in their faces.

“I have never believed in lying to the men under my command, and so I tell you this: Our chances of victory are slim. Very slim! It is important that we understand that.

“You know me by reputation. As yet you do not know me as a man. But I ask you to listen to what I say now as if your own fathers were whispering in your ears. Battles are won in many cases by the actions of a single man. Each one of you could represent the difference between victory and defeat.

“Druss the Legend was such a man. He turned the battle for Skeln Pass into one of the greatest Drenai victories of all time. But he was just a man, a Skoda man.

“On the day one of you, or ten of you, or a hundred of you, will turn the battle. A moment’s panic or a single second of heroism.” He paused again and then lifted his hand, one finger pointing to the sky. “One single second!”

“Now I am going to ask for the first act of courage from some of you. If there be any men here who believe they could fail their friends in tomorrow’s fight, let them leave the camp before today’s end.

“I swear by all I hold precious that I will look down on no man who does this. For tomorrow it is vital that the men who look into the eyes of death should not falter.

“Later today we will be joined by a warrior second to none on the face of this earth, the most skillful general I have ever known and the deadliest fighting man under the sun. He will have with him a group of soldiers having very special talents; these warriors will be split up among you, and their orders are to be obeyed without hesitation. And I
mean
that!

“Lastly, I ask for something for myself. I was the wing gan of the finest army in the world—the Dragon. They were my family, my friends, my brothers. And they are dead, betrayed and lost to this nation. But the Dragon was more than an army; it was an ideal. A dream, if you like. It was a force to stand against darkness, formed by men who would march into hell with a bucket of water, knowing they would put out the fire.

“But you don’t need glittering armor or a battle standard to be the Dragon. You just need to be willing.

“The forces of darkness are marching against us like storm winds against a lantern. They think to find us cowering in the mountains like sheep. But I want them to feel the Dragon’s breath on their necks and the Dragon’s teeth in their guts! I want those black-garbed, high-riding sons of sluts to burn in the Dragon’s fire!” He was shouting now, his fists clenched and punching the air for emphasis. He took a deep breath, then another, and suddenly swung out his arm to encompass them all.

“I want you to
be
the Dragon. I want you to
think
Dragon. When they charge, I want you to
fight
like Dragon!

“Can you do it? Well,
can you
?” he bellowed, pointing at a man in the front row.

“Damn right!” shouted the man.

“Can you?” said Ananais, pointing to a warrior several rows back. The man nodded. “Use your voice!” the general stormed.

“I can!” the man called.

“And do you know the Dragon’s roar?”

The man shook his head.

“The Dragon’s roar is death. Death.
Death!
Let’s hear you—you alone!”

The man cleared his throat and began to shout. He was blushing furiously.

“Give him some support, the rest of you!” Ananais yelled, joining in with the man.

“Death, Death, DEATH …” and the sound grew, rolling across the meadow to echo in the white-capped mountains, growing in strength and confidence, hypnotic as it drew the men together.

Ananais stepped from the wagon, pulling Lake to him.

“Now you get up there, lad. And give them your fighting-for-the-land speech. They’re ready for it now, by thunder!”

“No fine speeches, indeed,” said Lake, grinning.

“Get up there, Lake, and lift their blood!”

10

P
agan took the
village woman Parise to an inn at the southern quarter of the city, where he passed three gold coins to the innkeeper. The man’s eyes bulged at the sight of the small fortune glittering in his palm.

“I want the woman and the babe to receive your best,” said Pagan softly. “I will leave more gold with friends, should this amount prove insufficient.”

“I will treat her like my own sister,” said the man.

“That is good,” Pagan said, smiling broadly and leaning over him. “Because if you do not, I shall eat your heart.”

“There is no need to threaten me, black man,” said the stocky balding innkeeper, drawing back his shoulders and clenching his powerful fists. “I require no instructions on how to treat a woman.”

Pagan nodded. “These are not good times to rely on trust alone.”

“No, that’s true enough. Will you join me for a drink?”

The two men sat together nursing their ale, while Parise fed the babe in the privacy of her new room. The innkeeper’s name was Ilter, and he had lived in the city for twenty-three years, ever since his farm had failed during the great drought.

“You know you have given me too much money, don’t you?” he said.

“I know,” answered Pagan.

Ilter nodded and drained the rest of his ale. “I have never seen a black man before.”

“In my land, beyond the dark jungles and the Mountains of the Moon, the people have never seen a white man, though there are legends that speak of such.”

“Strange world, isn’t it?” said Ilter.

Pagan stared into the golden depths of his drink, suddenly homesick for the rolling veldt, the sunsets of scarlet, and the coughing roar of the hunting lion.

He remembered the morning of the day of death. Would he ever forget it? The ships with black sails had beached in White Gold Bay, and the raiders had swiftly made their way inland to his father’s village. The old man had gathered his warriors swiftly, but there were not enough and they had been butchered at the last before the old king’s kraal.

The raiders had come in search of gold, for legends were many concerning the people of the bay, but the old mines had been long worked out and the people had turned to the growing gold of maize and corn. In their fury the raiders took the women and tortured many, raping and murdering them at the last. In all, four hundred souls passed over on that day, among them Pagan’s father, mother, three sisters, a younger brother, and four of his daughters.

One child escaped during the opening moments of the attack and ran like the wind, finding Pagan and his personal guard hunting in the high hills.

With sixty men he raced barefoot over the veldt, his long-bladed spear resting on his shoulder. They reached the village soon after the raiders had left. Taking in the scene at a glance, Pagan read the tracks. Three hundred men or more had attacked his father’s kraal—too many for him to handle. Taking his spear, he snapped it across his knee, discarding the long shaft and hefting the stabbing blade like a short sword. His men followed suit.

“I want many dead but one alive,” said Pagan. “You, Bopa, will take the live one and bring him to me. For the rest, let us drink blood.”

“We hear and obey, Kataskicana,” they shouted, and he led them into the jungle and on to the bay.

Moving like black ghosts, they came upon the party singing and laughing as they made their way back to their ships. Pagan and his sixty fell on them like demons of hell, hacking and stabbing. Then they were gone into the jungle.

Eighty raiders died in that one attack, and one man was missing, presumed dead. For three days he wished that were so.

Pagan took the man to the ruined village, and there he used all the barbarous skills of his people until at last the thing that had been a man gave up his soul to the void. Then Pagan had the carcass burned.

Returning to his palace, he called his counselors to him and told them of the attack.

“My family blood calls to me for revenge,” he told them, “yet our nation is too distant for war. The killers came from a land called Drenai, sent by their king to gather gold. I am a king, and I carry the heart of my people in my hand. Therefore, I alone shall carry this war to the enemy. I shall seek out their king and destroy him. My own son, Katasi, will sit on my throne until I return. If I am gone for longer than three years …” He turned to the warrior beside him. “It is time for you to rule, Katasi. I was king at your age.”

“Let me go in your place, Father,” pleaded the young man.

“No. You are the future. If I do not return, I do not wish my wives to burn. It is one thing for them to follow a king on the day of his death and at the place of his passing. But if I am to die, it may be that it will happen soon. I cannot have my wives waiting three years only to be lost in the mists. Let them live.”

“To hear is to obey.”

“Good! I believe I have taught you well, Katasi. Once you hated me for sending you to Ventria to study, even as I hated my father. Now I think you will find those years to your benefit.”

“May the Lord Shem rest his soul upon your sword,” said Katasi, embracing his father.

It had taken Pagan more than a year to reach the lands of the Drenai, and it had cost him half the gold he carried. He had soon realized the extent of his task. Now he knew the gods had given him his chance.

Tenaka Khan was the key.

But first they must defeat the legion.

For the past forty hours Tenaka Khan had been camped in the Demon’s Smile, riding and walking over the terrain, studying each curve and hollow, memorizing details of cover and angles of possible attack.

Now he sat with Rayvan and her son Lucas at the highest point of the curving valley, staring out onto the plain beyond the mountains.

“Well?” Rayvan said for the third time. “Have you come up with anything?” Rubbing his tired eyes, Tenaka discarded the sketch he had been working on and turned to the warrior woman, smiling. Her ample frame was now hidden beneath a long mail shirt, and her dark hair was braided beneath a round black helm.

“I hope you are not still intending to stand with the fighters, Rayvan,” he said.

“You cannot talk me out of it,” she replied. “My mind is made up.”

“Don’t argue, man,” advised Lucas. “You will be wasting your breath.”

“I got them into this,” she said, “and I will be damned if I let them die for me without being with them.”

“Make no mistake about it, Rayvan, there will be a great deal of dying. We can achieve no cheap victory here; we shall be lucky if we don’t lose two-thirds of our force.”

“That many?” she whispered.

“At least. There is too much killing ground.”

“Can’t we just pepper them with arrows from the high ground as they enter the valley?” asked Lucas.

“Yes. But they would just leave half their force to keep us pinned down and then attack the city and the villages. The bloodshed would be terrible.”

“Then what do you suggest?” said Rayvan.

He told her, and she blanched. Lucas said nothing. Tenaka folded the parchment notes and sketches and tied them with a strip of leather. The silence grew between them.

“Despite your tainted blood,” said Rayvan at last, “I trust you, Tenaka. From any other man I would say it was madness. Even from you …”

“There is no other way to win. But I accept that it is fraught with danger. I have marked out the ground where the work must be done, and I have made maps and charted distances for the archers to memorize. But it is up to you, Rayvan. You are the leader here.”

“What do you think, Lucas?” she asked her son.

He waved his hands. “Don’t ask me! I’m not a soldier.”

“You think
I
am?” snapped Rayvan. “Give me an opinion.”

“I don’t like it. But I cannot give you an alternative. As Tenaka says, if we cut and run, we open Skoda to them. And we cannot win that way. But two-thirds …”