Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (38 page)

P
arsal continued to
crawl, dragging himself through the long grass. The pain from his mutilated leg had faded from the searing agony of the previous afternoon to a throbbing ache that occasionally flared, causing him to lose consciousness. The night was cool, but Parsal was sweating freely. He no longer knew where he was going, only that he had to put as great a distance between himself and the horror as he could.

He crawled over an area of earth pitted with pebbles, and a sharp stone dug into his leg. Groaning, he rolled over.

Ananais had told them to hold on for as long as they could, then to draw back and make for Magadon. He had then gone to another valley with Galand. The events of the afternoon kept flooding Parsal’s mind, and he could not push them away … With four hundred men he had waited in a tiny pass. The cavalry had come first, thundering up the incline with lances leveled. Parsal’s archers had cut them to pieces. The infantry was harder to repel, well armored and with round bronze shields held high. Parsal had never been the swordsman his brother was, but by all the gods, he had given a good account of himself!

The Skoda men had fought like tigers, and Ceska’s infantry had been forced back. That was the point when he should have ordered his men to withdraw.

Foolish, foolish man!

But he had been so uplifted. So proud! Never in his life had he led a fighting force. He had been turned down for the Dragon, while his brother had been accepted. Now he had repelled a mighty enemy.

And he waited for one more attack.

The Joinings had surged forward like demons of the pit. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget that charge. The beasts sent up a terrifying wall of sound, howling their blood lust as they ran. Giant monsters with slavering maws and blood-red eyes, sharp talons, and bright, bright swords.

Arrows scarcely pierced their flesh, and they swept aside the fighting men of Skoda as a grown man scattered unruly children.

Parsal gave no order to run; it was unnecessary. The Skoda courage vanished like water on sand, and the force scattered. In his anguish Parsal ran at a Joining, aiming a mighty blow for the beast’s head, but his sword bounced from the thick skull and the creature turned on him. Parsal was thrown back, and the Joining dived, its great jaws closing on Parsal’s left leg and ripping the flesh from the bone. A gallant Skoda fighter leapt to the beast’s back, driving a long dagger into its neck; it turned away from Parsal to rip the throat from the warrior. Parsal rolled clear over a rise and tumbled down and down into the valley. And so his long crawl began.

He knew now that there was no victory for the Skoda men. Their dreams were folly. Nothing could stand against the Joinings. He wished he had stayed on his farm in Vagria, far away from this insane war.

Something seized his leg, and he sat up, waving a dagger. A taloned arm smashed it from his grip, and three Joinings squatted around him, their eyes gleaming, saliva dripping from open maws.

Mercifully he blacked out.

And the feeding began.

Pagan edged forward until he was less than a hundred yards from the western quarter of the city. His horse was hidden in the woods behind him. Smoke from the burning buildings was swirling like mist, and it was hard to see for any distance. Bodies were being dragged from the city by groups of Joinings, and the feast started in the meadows beyond. Pagan had never seen the beasts before, and he watched them in grim fascination. Most were over seven feet tall and mightily muscled.

Pagan was at a loss. He had a message for Ananais from Scaler, but where would he now deliver it? Was the dark-masked warrior still alive? Was the war over? If it was, then Pagan must change his plan. He had sworn to kill Ceska, and he was not a man to take an oath lightly. Somewhere among this army was the tent of the emperor. All he had to do was find it and gut the son of a whore.

That was all!

The deaths of Pagan’s people weighed heavily on him, and he was determined to avenge them. Once he killed Ceska, the emperor’s shade would be consigned to the land of shadow to serve the slain. A fitting punishment.

Pagan watched the beasts feed for a while, noting their movements and learning all he could against the day when he must fight them. He was under no illusion; the day would come. Man against beast, head to head. The beast might be strong, swift, and deadly. But then, Kataskicana the king had earned the title “lord of war.” For he too was strong, swift, and deadly. But added to this, he was cunning.

Pagan eased his way back into the woods. Once there he froze, his wide nostrils flaring. His eyes narrowed, and he slid his ax into his hand.

His horse was standing where he had left it, but the beast was quivering in fear, its ears flat against its skull and its eyes wide.

Pagan delved into his leather tunic, pulling clear a short, heavy throwing knife. Licking his lips, he scanned the undergrowth. Hiding places close by were few; he was in one such, which left three other obvious places. So, he reasoned, he was facing a maximum of three opponents. Did they have bows? Unlikely, for they would have to stand, draw, and loose at a swiftly moving target. Were they human? Unlikely, for the horse was terrified and mere men would not create such fear.

So, then: a possible three Joinings crouched in the bushes ahead of him.

His decision made, Pagan stood up and walked toward his horse.

A Joining leapt from the bushes to his right, and another rose from the left. They moved with incredible speed. Pagan spun on his heel, his right arm flashing down; the knife plunged into the right eye socket of the first beast. The second was almost upon him when the black man dropped to his knees and dived forward, crashing into the creature’s legs. The Joining pitched over him, and Pagan rolled, lashing the ax blade deep into the beast’s thigh. Then he was up and running. He tore the reins clear of the branches and vaulted to the saddle as the Joining ran at him. As Pagan leaned back in the saddle, tugging on the reins, the horse reared in terror, its hooves lashing at the beast and catching it full in the face. The Joining went down, and Pagan heeled away his horse through the woods, ducking under overhanging branches. Once clear, he galloped to the west.

The gods had been with him, for he had seriously miscalculated. Had there been three Joinings, he would have been dead. He had aimed the knife for the beast’s throat, but so swift had been its charge that he had almost missed the target altogether.

Pagan slowed his horse as the burning city fell away behind him.

All over the lowlands would be the scouts of Ceska. He had no wish to gallop into a greater danger than that from which he had fled. He patted the horse’s neck.

He had left Scaler with the Cheiam. The new Earl of Bronze had grown in stature, and his plans for taking the fortress were well advanced. Whether they would work was another matter, but at least Scaler was tackling them with confidence. Pagan chuckled. The young Drenai was more than convincing in his new role, and Pagan could almost believe that he really was the legendary earl.

Almost
. Pagan chuckled again.

Toward dusk he moved into a section of trees near a stream. He had seen no sign of the enemy, and he scouted the area carefully. But a surprise lay in wait for him as he rode into a small hollow.

Some twenty children were seated around the body of a man.

Pagan dismounted and tethered his horse. A tall boy stepped forward, a dagger in his hand.

“Touch him and I will kill you!” said the boy.

“I will not touch him,” said Pagan. “Put up the knife.”

“Are you a Joining?”

“No, I am merely a man.”

“You don’t look like a man—you’re black.”

Pagan nodded solemnly. “Indeed I am. You, on the other hand, are white and very small. I don’t doubt your bravery, but do you really think you can stand against me?”

The boy licked his lips, but stood his ground.

“If I was your enemy, boy, I would have killed you by now. Stand aside.” He walked forward, ignoring the lad as he knelt by the body. The dead man was thickset and balding, his large hands locked on his jerkin.

“What happened?” Pagan asked a little girl sitting closest to the body. She looked away, and the boy with the knife spoke.

“He brought us here yesterday. He said we could hide until the beasts went away. But this morning as he was playing with Melissa, he clutched his chest and fell.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Melissa. “I didn’t do anything!”

Pagan ruffled the child’s mousy blond hair. “Of course you didn’t. Did you bring food with you?”

“Yes,” answered the boy. “It’s over there in the cave.”

“My name is Pagan, and I am a friend of Darkmask.”

“Will you look after us?” asked Melissa.

Pagan smiled at her, then stood and stretched. The Joinings would be on the loose now, and he had no chance of avoiding them on foot with twenty children in tow. He strode to the top of a nearby hill, shading his eyes to view the mountains. It would take them at least two days to walk that distance, two days out in the open. He turned to see the boy with the knife sitting on a rock behind him. He was tall and about eleven years of age.

“You didn’t answer Melissa’s question,” said the boy.

“What is your name, lad?”

“Ceorl. Will you help us?”

“I don’t know that I can,” answered Pagan.

“I cannot do it all by myself,” said Ceorl, his gray eyes locked on Pagan’s face.

Pagan sat down on the grass. “Try to understand, Ceorl. There is virtually no way that we can make it to the mountains. The Joinings are like beasts of the jungle. They track by scent; they move fast and range wide. I have a message to deliver to Darkmask; I am involved in the war. I have my own mission and have sworn to see it through.”

“Excuses!” said Ceorl. “Always excuses. Well, I will get them there—trust me.”

“I will stay with you for a little while,” said Pagan. “But be warned: I don’t much like children chattering around me—it makes me irritable.”

“You can’t stop Melissa chattering. She is very young and very frightened.”

“And you are not frightened?”

“I am a man,” said Ceorl. “I gave up crying years ago.”

Pagan nodded and smoothly rose to his feet. “Let’s get the food and be on our way.”

Together they gathered the children. Each child carried a small rucksack of food and a canteen of water. Pagan lifted Melissa and two other toddlers to the horse’s back and led them out onto the plain. The wind was at their backs, which was good … unless there were Joinings ahead of them. Ceorl was right about Melissa; she chattered on and on, telling Pagan stories he could scarcely follow. Toward the evening she began to sway in the saddle, and Pagan lifted her clear and held her to his chest.

They had covered maybe three miles when Ceorl ran alongside Pagan and tugged his sleeve.

“What is it?”

“They are very tired. I just saw Ariane sit down beside the trail back there. I think she’s gone to sleep.”

“All right. Go back and get her. We will camp here.”

The children huddled in together around Pagan as he laid Melissa down on the grass. The night was cool but not cold.

“Will you tell us a story?” asked the girl.

Keeping his voice soft, he told them of the moon goddess who came down to earth on silver steps to live the life of a mortal. There she met the handsome warrior prince Anidigo. He loved her as no man had loved a woman since, but she was coy and fled from him. Up into the sky she rose in a silver chariot, perfectly round. He could not follow and went to see a wise wizard, who made him a chariot of pure gold. Anidigo swore that until he had won the heart of the moon goddess he would never return. His golden chariot, also perfectly round, soared into the sky like a gleaming ball of fire. Around and around the earth he went, but always she was ahead of him. Even to this day.

“Look up!” said Pagan. “There she rides, and soon Anidigo will send her fleeing from the sky.”

The last child fell into a dreamless sleep, and Pagan eased himself through them, seeking Ceorl. Together they walked some paces away.

“You tell a good story.”

“I have many children,” replied Pagan.

“If they irritate you, why have so many?” the boy asked.

“That’s not easy to explain,” said Pagan, grinning.

“Oh, I understand,” snapped Ceorl. “I am not so young.”

Pagan tried to explain.

“A man can love his children yet be annoyed by them. I was delighted with the births of all my children. One of them stands now in my place at home, ruling my people. But I am a man who has always needed solitude. Children do not understand that.”

“Why are you black?”

“So much for the philosophical conversation! I am black because my country is very hot. A dark skin is a protection against the sunlight. Does your skin not darken during summer?”

“And your hair—why is it so tightly curled?”

“I don’t know, young man. No more do I know why my nose is wide and my lips thicker than yours. It is just the way it is.”

“Does everybody look like you where you come from?”

“Not to me.”

“Can you fight?”

“You are full of questions, Ceorl!”

“I like to know things. Can you fight?”

“Like a tiger.”

“That’s a kind of cat, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A very
large
cat and distinctly unfriendly.”

“I can fight,” said Ceorl. “I am a good fighter.”

“I’m sure that you are. But let us hope that we don’t have to prove it. Go and sleep now.”

“I am not tired. I’ll stand watch.”

“Do as I tell you, Ceorl. You can stand watch tomorrow.”

The boy nodded and went back to the children. Within minutes he was fast asleep. Pagan sat for a while thinking of his homeland. Then he, too, moved to where the children lay. Melissa was still sleeping soundly, cuddling a rag doll. The doll was ancient; it had no eyes and only two thin strands of yellow thread for hair.

Scaler had told him of his own strange religious belief. The gods, said Scaler, were all so old that they had grown senile. Their vast power was now employed in senseless japes played on humans, misdirecting their lives and leaving them in appalling situations.