Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (25 page)

“It is not that simple, Rayvan.”

“Life seldom is, Decado. But then, I am but a simple mountain woman and I paint the pictures as I see them.”

“Come now, lady, there is nothing simple about you! But let us suppose—for a moment—that you are right. Do you think that Tenaka, or Ananais, or myself chose to be as we are? My grandfather had a dog. He desired that dog to hate the Nadir, so he hired an old tribesman to come into the farmyard every night and beat the puppy with a switch.

“The puppy grew to hate that old man and any other of his slant-eyed race. Would you blame the dog? Tenaka Khan was raised amid hatred, and though he did not respond in kind, still the absence of love left its mark. He bought a wife and lavished all he had on her. Now she is dead, and he has nothing.

“Ananais? You only have to look upon him to know what pain he carries. But even so, that is not the whole story. His father died insane after killing Ananais’ mother before his eyes. Even before that the father had bedded Ani’s sister … She died in childbirth.

“And as for me, my story is even more sordid and sad. So spare me your mountain homilies, Rayvan. Had any of us grown to manhood on the slopes of your mountain, I don’t doubt we would have been better men.”

She smiled then and heaved herself onto the wall, swinging around to look down on him. “Foolish boy!” she said. “I did not say you needed to be better men. You are the best of men, and I love all three of you. You are not like your grandfather’s dog, Decado—you are a man. And a man can overcome his background, even as he can overcome a skilled opponent. Look around you more often: see the people as they touch and show their love. But don’t watch coldly, like an observer. Don’t hover outside life—take part in it. There are people out there waiting to love you. It is not something you should turn down lightly.”

“We are what we are, lady; do not ask for more. I am a swordsman. Ananais is a warrior. Tenaka is a general beyond compare. Our backgrounds have made us what we are. You need us as you see us.”

“Perhaps. But perhaps you could be even greater.”

“Now is not the time to experiment. Come, I will walk you back to your rooms.”

Scaler sat on the broad bed, staring at the dark-stained door. Tenaka was gone now, but he could still see the tall Nadir warrior and hear the softly spoken commands.

It was a farce. He was trapped here, entangled in this web of heroes.

Take Dros Delnoch?

Ananais could take Dros Delnoch, charging it single-handed with his silver sword flashing in the dawn sun. Tenaka could take it with some improvised plan, some subtle stroke of genius involving a length of twine and three small pebbles. These were men made for legend, created by the gods to fuel the sagas.

But where did Scaler fit in?

He moved to the long mirror by the window wall. A tall young man stared back at him, dark shoulder-length hair held in place by a black leather brow circlet. The eyes were bright and intelligent, the chin square, giving the lie to the saga poets. The fringed buckskin jerkin hung well, drawn in to his lean waist by a thick sword belt. A dagger hung at his left side. His leggings were of the softest dark leather, and his boots thigh-length after the fashion of the legion. Reaching for his sword, he slotted it home in the leather scabbard and placed it at his side.

“You poor fool!” the mirror warrior told him. “You should have stayed at home.”

He had tried to tell Tenaka how ill equipped he felt, but the Nadir had smiled gently and ignored him.

“You are of the blood, Arvan. It will carry you through,” he had said. Words! Just words. Blood was merely dark liquid. It carried no secrets, no mysteries. Courage was a thing of the soul and not a gift that a man could bestow on his sons.

The door opened, and Scaler glanced around as Pagan entered. The black man smiled a greeting and then eased himself into a broad leather chair. In the lantern light he loomed large, the immense sweep of his shoulders filling the chair. Just like the others, thought Scaler, a man to move mountains.

“Come to see me off?” he asked, breaking the silence.

The black man shook his head. “I am coming with you.”

Relief struck Scaler with almost physical power, but he masked his emotions.

“Why?”

“Why not? I like riding.”

“You know my mission?”

“You are to take a fort and open the gates for Tenaka’s warriors.”

“It is not quite so easy as you make it sound,” said Scaler, returning to the bed and sitting down. The sword twisted between his legs as he sat, and he straightened it.

“Don’t worry about it; you will think of something,” Pagan said, grinning. “When do you want to leave?”

“In about two years.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Scaler; it does no good. I know your mission is tough. Dros Delnoch is a city with six walls and a keep. More than seven thousand warriors are stationed there, and some fifty Joinings. But we will do what we can. Tenaka says you have a plan.”

Scaler chuckled. “That is good of him. He thought of it days ago and waited for me to catch up!”

“So tell me.”

“The Sathuli—they are a mountain and desert people, fierce and independent. For centuries they fought the Drenai over the rights to the Delnoch ranges. During the First Nadir War they aided my ancestor, the Earl of Bronze. In return he gave them the land. I don’t know how many there are—possibly ten thousand, maybe less. But Ceska has revoked the original treaty, and border skirmishes have begun again.”

“So, you will seek aid from the tribesmen?”

“Yes.”

“But without great hope of success?”

“That’s a fair comment. The Sathuli have always hated the Drenai, and there is no trust there. Worse than that, they loathe the Nadir. And even if they do help, how in hell’s name do I get them to leave the fortress?”

“One problem at a time, Scaler!”

Scaler stood up, and the sword twisted again, half tripping him; he pulled the scabbard from the belt and hurled it to the bed.

“One problem at a time? All right! Let us look at problems. I am no warrior, no swordsman. I have never been a soldier. I am frightened of battles and have never displayed much skill at tactics. I am not a leader and would be hard-pressed to get hungry men to follow me to a kitchen. Which of these problems shall we tackle first?”

“Sit down, boy,” said Pagan, leaning forward and resting his hands on the arms of the chair. Scaler sat, his anger ebbing from him. “Now listen to me! In my own land I am a king. I rose to the throne on blood and death, the first of my race to take the opal. When I was a young man and full of pride, an old priest came to me, telling me that I would burn in the fires of hell for my crimes. I ordered a regiment to build a fire from many trees. It could not be approached closer than thirty paces, and the flames beat against the vault of heaven. Then I ordered that regiment to put out the flames. Ten thousand men hurled themselves on the blaze, and the fire died. ‘If I go to hell,’ I told the priest, ‘my men will follow me and stamp out the flames.’ From the great Sea of Souls to the Mountains of the Moon, I ruled that kingdom. I survived poison in my wine cup and daggers at my back, false friends and noble enemies, treacherous sons and summer plagues. And yet I will follow you, Scaler.”

Scaler swallowed as he watched the lantern light dance on the ebony features of the man in the chair.

“Why? Why will you follow me?”

“Because the thing must be done. And now I am going to tell you a great truth, and if you are wise, you will take it to your heart. All men are stupid. They are full of fear and insecurity—it makes them weak. Always the other man seems stronger, more confident, more capable. It is a lie of the worst kind, for we lie to ourselves.

“Take yourself. When I came in here, I was your black friend, Pagan—big, strong, and friendly. But what am I now? Now am I not a savage king far above you? Do you not feel ashamed of having forced your tiny doubts upon me?”

Scaler nodded.

“And yet,
am
I a king? Did I truly command my regiment to stamp out a fire? How do you know? You do not! You listened to the voice of your inadequacy, and because you believed, you are in my power. If I draw my sword, you are dead!

“And again, when I look at you, I see a bright courageous young man, well built and in the prime of his manhood. You could be the prince of assassins, the deadliest warrior under the sun. You could be an emperor, a general, a poet …

“Not a leader, Scaler? Anyone can be a leader, because everyone wants to be led.”

“I am not a Tenaka Khan,” said Scaler. “I am not of the same breed.”

“Tell me that in a month. But from now on act the part. You will be amazed at the number of people you fool. Don’t share your doubts! Life is a game, Scaler. Play it like that.”

Scaler grinned. “Why not? But tell me, did you truly send your men into the fire?”

“You tell me,” said Pagan, his face hardening and his eyes glowing in the lamplight.

“No, you did not!”

Pagan grinned. “No! I will have the horses ready at dawn. I’ll see you then.”

“Make sure you pack plenty of honey cakes. Belder has a fondness for them.”

Pagan shook his head. “The old man is not coming. He is no good for you, and his spirit is gone. He stays behind.”

“If you follow me, then you do as I damn well say,” snapped Scaler. “Three horses and Belder travels with us!”

The black man’s eyebrows rose, and he spread his hands. “Very well.” He opened the door.

“How was that?” asked Scaler.

“Not bad for a start. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As Pagan returned to his room, his mood was somber. Lifting his huge pack to the bed, he spread out the weapons he would carry the next day: two hunting knives, sharp as razors; four throwing knives to be worn in baldric sheaths; a short sword, double-edged; and a double-headed hand ax he would strap to his saddle.

Stripping himself naked, he took a phial of oil from his pack and began to grease his body, rubbing hard at the bunched muscles of his shoulders. The damp western air was creeping into his bones.

His mind soared back over the years. He could still feel the heat of the blaze and hear the screams of his warriors as they raced into the flames …

Tenaka rode down from the mountain onto the slopes of the Vagrian plains. The sun rose over his left shoulder, and the clouds bunched above his head. He felt at peace with the breeze in his hair; though mountainous problems reared ahead of him, he felt light and free of burdens.

He wondered if his Nadir heritage had made him uneasy among city dwellers, with their high walls and shuttered windows. The breeze picked up, and Tenaka smiled.

Tomorrow death could flash toward him on an arrow point, but today … today was fine.

He pushed all thoughts of Skoda from his mind; those problems could be dealt with by Ananais and Rayvan. Scaler, too, was now his own man, riding for his own destiny. All Tenaka could do was fulfill his particular part in the tale.

His mind swam back to his childhood among the tribes. Spear, Wolfshead, Green Monkey, Grave Mountain, Soul Stealers. So many camps, so many territories.

Ulric’s tribe was acknowledged as the premier fighting men: the lords of the steppes, the bringers of war. Wolfshead they were, and their ferocity in war was legend. But who ruled the wolves now? Surely Jongir was dead.

Tenaka considered the contemporaries of his youth:

Knifespeaks, swift to anger and slow to forgive. Cunning, resourceful, and ambitious.

Abadai Truthtaker, devious and devout in the ways of the shaman.

Tsuboy, known as Saddleskull after he killed a raider and mounted the man’s skull on his saddle horn.

All these were grandsons of Jongir. All descended from Ulric.

Tenaka’s violet eyes grew bleak and cold as he brought the trio to mind. Each had showed his hatred of the half-breed.

Abadai had been the most vicious and had even resorted to poison during the Feast of the Long Knives. Only Shillat, Tenaka’s vigilant mother, had observed the placing of the powder in her son’s cup.

But none had challenged Tenaka directly, for even by the age of fourteen he had earned the name Bladedancer and was accomplished with every weapon of war.

And he sat for long night hours around the campfires, listening to the old men as they remembered wars past, picking up details of strategy and tactics. At fifteen he knew every battle and skirmish in Wolfshead history.

Tenaka drew on the reins and stared at the distant Delnoch mountains.

Nadir we,
youth born,
ax wielders,
bloodletters,
victors still.

He laughed and dug his heels into his gelding’s flanks. The beast snorted and then broke into a full gallop across the plain, hooves drumming in the early-morning silence.

Tenaka let the horse run for several minutes before slowing it to a canter and then a trot. They had many miles to go, and though the beast was game, he did not wish to over-tire it.

By all the gods, it was good to be free of people! Even Renya.

She was beautiful and he loved her, but he was a man who needed solitude, freedom for his plans to form.

She had listened in silence when he had told her of his plan to travel alone. He had expected a bitter row, but she had offered none. Instead, she had embraced him and they had made love without passion but with great tenderness.

If he survived this insane venture, he would take her to his heart and his home. If he survived? He calculated the odds against success at hundreds to one, perhaps thousands. A sudden thought struck him. Was he a fool? He had Renya and a fortune waiting in Ventria. Why risk everything?

Did he love the Drenai? He pondered the question, knowing that he did not but wondering just what his feelings were. The people had never accepted him, even as a Dragon general. And the land, though beautiful, had nothing of the savage splendor of the steppes. So what were his feelings?

The death of Illae had unhinged him, coming so soon after the destruction of the Dragon. The shame he felt for spurning his friends had merged with the agony of Illae’s passing, and in some strange way he saw her death as a punishment for his failure to fulfill his duty. Only Ceska’s death—and his own—could wipe away the shame. But now it was different.