Ulric waved Ogasi back.
“Do you think to leave here alive?” he asked Rek.
“If I so choose, yes,” replied the earl.
“And I have no say in this matter?”
“None.”
“Truly? Now you intrigue me. All around you are Nadir bowmen. At my signal your bright armor will be hidden by black-shafted arrows. And you say I cannot?”
“If you can, then order it,” demanded the earl. Ulric moved his gaze to the archers. Arrows were ready, and many bows were already bent, their iron points glittering in the firelight.
“Why can I not order it?” he asked.
“Why have you not?” countered the earl.
“Curiosity. What is the real purpose of your visit? Have you come to slay me?”
“No. If I wished, I could have slain you as I killed your shaman: silently, invisibly. Your head would now be a worm-filled shell. There is no duplicity here. I came to honor my friend. Will you offer me hospitality or shall I return to my fortress?”
“Ogasi!” called Ulric.
“My lord?”
“Fetch refreshments for the earl and his followers. Order the archers back to their fires and let the entertainment continue.”
“Yes, lord,” said Ogasi dubiously.
Ulric gestured the earl to the throne at his side. Rek nodded and turned to Hogun. “Go and enjoy yourselves. Return for me in an hour.”
Hogun saluted, and Rek watched his small group wander off around the camp. He smiled as Bowman leaned over a seated Nadir and lifted a goblet of Lyrrd. The man stared when he saw his drink disappear, then laughed as Bowman drained it without a splutter.
“Damn good, hey?” said the warrior. “Better than that red vinegar from the south.”
Bowman nodded and pulled a flask from his hip pouch, offering it to the man. Suspicion was evident in the hesitant way the Nadir accepted the flask, but his friends were watching.
Slowly he removed the top, then took a tentative sip, followed by a full-blown swallow.
“This is damn good, too,” said the man. “What is it?”
“They call it Lentrian fire. Once tasted, never forgotten!”
The man nodded, then moved aside to make a place for Bowman.
“Join us, longbow. Tonight no war. We talk, yes?”
“Decent of you, old horse. I think I will.”
Seated on the throne, Rek lifted Druss’s goblet of Lentrian red and raised it toward the pyre. Ulric also raised his goblet, and both men silently toasted the fallen axman.
“He was a great man,” said Ulric. “My father told me tales of him and his lady. Rowena, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, he loved her greatly.”
“It is fitting,” said Ulric, “that such a man should know great love. I am sorry he is gone. It would be a fine thing if war could be conducted as a game where no lives were lost. At the end of a battle combatants could meet—even as we are doing—and drink and talk.”
“Druss would not have had it so,” said the earl. “Were this a game where the odds mattered, Dros Delnoch would already be yours. But Druss was a man who could change the odds and make nonsense of logic.”
“Up to a point, for he is dead. But what of you? What manner of man are you, Earl Regnak?”
“Just a man, Lord Ulric—even as you.”
Ulric leaned closer, his chin resting on his hand. “But then, I am not an ordinary man. I have never lost a battle.”
“Nor yet have I.”
“You intrigue me. You appear from nowhere, with no past, married to the dying earl’s daughter. No one has ever heard of you, and no man can tell me of your deeds. Yet men die for you as they would for a beloved king. Who are you?”
“I am the Earl of Bronze.”
“No. That I will not accept.”
“Then what would you have me say?”
“Very well, you are the Earl of Bronze. It matters not. Tomorrow you may return to your grave—you and all those who follow you. You began this battle with ten thousand men; you now boast perhaps seven hundred. You pin your faith on Magnus Woundweaver, but he cannot reach you in time, and even if he did, it would matter not. Look about you. This army is bred on victory. And it grows. I have four armies like this. Can I be stopped?”
“Stopping you is not important,” said the earl. “It never was.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“We are trying to stop you.”
“Is this a riddle which I should understand?”
“Your understanding is not important. It may be that destiny intends you to succeed. It may be that a Nadir empire will prove vastly beneficial to the world. But ask yourself this: Were there no army here when you arrived, save Druss alone, would he have opened the gate to you?”
“No. He would have fought and died,” said Ulric.
“But he would not have expected to win. So why would he do it?”
“Now I understand your riddle, Earl. But it saddens me that so many men must die when it is futile to resist. Nevertheless I respect you. I will see that your pyre is as high as that of Druss.”
“Thank you, no. If you do kill me, lay my body in a garden beyond the keep. There is already a grave there, surrounded by flowers, within which lies my wife. Put my body beside it.”
Ulric fell silent for several minutes, taking time to refill the goblets.
“It shall be as you wish, Earl of Bronze,” he said at last. “Join me in my tent now. We shall eat a little meat, drink a little wine, and be friends. I shall tell you of my life and my dreams, and you may talk of the past and your joys.”
“Why only the past, Lord Ulric?”
“It is all you have left, my friend.”
29
At midnight, as the flames from the funeral pyre blazed against the night sky, the Nadir horde drew their weapons, holding them aloft in silent tribute to the warrior whose soul, they believed, stood at the gates of paradise.
Rek and the company of Drenai followed suit, then he turned and bowed to Ulric. Ulric returned the bow, and the company set off to return to the postern gate of Wall Five. The return journey was made in silence, each man’s thoughts his own.
Bowman thought of Caessa and of her death at Druss’s side. He had loved her in his way, though he had never spoken of it. To love her was to die.
Hogun’s mind reeled with the awesome picture of the Nadir army seen from close range, numberless and mighty. Unstoppable!
Serbitar thought of the journey he would make with the remnants of the Thirty at dusk on the morrow. Only Arbedark would be missing, for they had convened the night before and declared him an abbot. Now he would journey from Delnoch alone to found a new temple in Ventria.
Rek fought against despair. Ulric’s last words echoed again and again in his mind:
“Tomorrow you will see the Nadir as never before. We have paid homage to your courage by attacking only in daylight, allowing you to rest at night. Now I need to take your keep, and there will be no rest until it falls. Day and night we will come at you until none are left alive to oppose us.”
Silently the group mounted the postern steps, making its way to the mess hall. Rek knew sleep would not come to him this night. It was his last night upon the earth, and his tired body summoned fresh reserves so that he could taste life and know the sweetness of drawing breath.
The group sat around a trestle table, and Rek poured wine. Of the Thirty, only Serbitar and Vintar remained. For many minutes the five men said little, until at last Hogun broke the uncomfortable silence.
“We knew it would come to this, did we not? There was no way to hold indefinitely.”
“Very true, old horse,” said Bowman. “Still, it is a trifle disappointing, don’t you think? I must own that I always kept alive a small hope that we would succeed. Now that it is gone, I feel a tiny twinge of panic.” He smiled gently and finished his drink with a single swallow.
“You are not pledged to stay,” said Hogun.
/> “True. Perhaps I will leave in the morning.”
“I don’t think you will, though I don’t know why,” said Hogun.
“Well, if truth be told, I promised that Nadir warrior, Kaska, that I would have another drink with him once they took the keep. Nice chap—if a trifle maudlin in his cups. He has six wives and twenty-three children. It is a wonder he has the time to come to war.”
“Or the strength!” added Hogun, grinning. “And what of you, Rek. Why do you stay?”
“Hereditary stupidity,” answered Rek.
“That is not enough,” said Bowman. “Come on, Rek—the truth, if you please.”
Rek scanned the group swiftly, noting the fatigue on all their faces and realizing for the first time that he loved them all.
His eyes met Vintar’s, and understanding flowed between them. The older man smiled.
“I think,” said Rek, “that only the Abbot of Swords can answer that question—for all of us.”
Vintar nodded and closed his eyes for several moments. All the men knew he was searching their hearts and minds, yet there was no fear, no embarrassment, no desire any longer to be alone.
“All things that live must die,” said Vintar. “Man alone, it seems, lives all his life in the knowledge of death. And yet there is more to life than merely waiting for death. For life to have meaning, there must be a purpose. A man must pass something on—otherwise he is useless.
“For most men that purpose revolves around marriage and children who will carry on his seed. For others it is an ideal—a dream, if you like. Each of us here believes in the concept of honor: that it is man’s duty to do that which is right and just, that might alone is not enough. We have all transgressed at some time. We have stolen, lied, cheated—even killed—for our own ends. But ultimately we return to our beliefs. We do not allow the Nadir to pass unchallenged because we cannot. We judge ourselves more harshly than others can judge us. We know that death is preferable to betrayal of that which we hold dear.
“Hogun, you are a soldier and you have faith in the Drenai cause. You have been told to stand and will do so without question. It would not occur to you that there were any alternatives but to obey. And yet you understand when others think differently. You are a rare man.
“Bowman, you are a romantic and yet a cynic. You mock the nobility of man, for you have seen that too often nobility gives way to more base desires. Yet you have secretly set yourself standards which other men will never understand. You, more than any of the others, desire to live. The urge is strong in you to run away. But you will not, not as long as a single man stands to defend these walls. Your courage is great.
“Rek, you are the most difficult to answer for. Like Bowman, you are a romantic, but there is a depth to you which I have not tried to plumb. You are intuitive and intelligent, but it is your intuition that guides you. You know it is right that you stay—and also senseless that you stay. Your intellect tells you that this cause is folly, but your intuition forces you to reject your intellect. You are that rare animal, a born leader of men. And you cannot leave.
“All of you are bound together in chains a thousand times stronger than steel.
“And finally there is one—who comes now—for which all I have said remains true. He is a lesser man than any here and yet a greater, for his fears are greater than yours, and yet he also will stand firm and die beside you.”
The door opened, and Orrin entered, his armor bright and freshly oiled. Silently he sat among them, accepting a goblet of wine.
“I trust Ulric was in good health,” he said.
“He has never looked better, old horse,” answered Bowman.
“Then we will give him a bloody nose tomorrow,” said the general, his dark eyes gleaming.
The dawn sky was bright and clear as the Drenai warriors ate a cold breakfast of bread and cheese, washed down with honeyed water. Every man who could stand manned the walls, blades to the ready. As the Nadir prepared to advance, Rek leapt to the battlements and turned to face the defenders.
“No long speeches today,” he shouted. “We all know our plight. But I want to say that I am proud, more proud than I could ever have imagined. I wish I could find words …” He stammered to silence, then lifted his sword from its scabbard and held it high.
“By all the gods that ever walked, I swear that you are the finest men I ever knew. And if I could have chosen the end of this tale and peopled it with heroes of the past, I would not change a single thing. For no one could have given more than you have.
“And I thank you.
“But if any man here wishes to leave now, he may do so. Many of you have wives, children, others depending on you. If that be the case, leave now with my blessing. For what we do here today will not affect the outcome of the war.”
He leapt lightly to the ramparts to rejoin Orrin and Hogun.
Farther along the line a young cul shouted: “What of you, Earl of Bronze? Will you stay?”
Rek stepped to the wall once more. “I must stay, but I give you leave to go.”
No man moved, though many considered it.
The Nadir war cry rose, and the battle began.
Throughout that long day, no foothold could be gained by the Nadir and the carnage was terrible.
The great sword of Egel lunged and slew, cleaving armor, flesh, and bone, and the Drenai fought like demons, cutting and slaying ferociously. For these, as Serbitar had predicted so many weeks ago, were the finest of the fighting men, and death and fear of death had no place in their minds. Time and again the Nadir reeled back, bloodied and bemused.
But as dusk approached, the assault on the gates strengthened and the great barrier of bronze and oak began to buckle. Serbitar led the last of the Thirty to stand, as Druss had done, in the shadow of the gate porch. Rek raced to join them, but a withering mind pulse from Serbitar ordered him back to the wall. He was about to resist when Nadir warriors scrambled over the ramparts behind him. Egel’s sword flashed, beheading the first, and Rek was once more in the thick of battle.
In the gateway Serbitar was joined by Suboden, the captain of his Vagrian bodyguard. Only some sixty men were still alive out of the force that had originally arrived.
“Go back to the walls,” said Serbitar.
The fair-haired Vagrian shook his head. “I cannot. We are here as your carle-guard, and we will die with you.”
“You bear me no love, Suboden. You have made that plain.”
“Love has little to do with my duty, Lord Serbitar. Even so, I hope you will forgive me. I thought your powers were demon-sent, but no man possessed would stand as you do now.”
“There is nothing to forgive, but you have my blessing,” Serbitar told the blond carle-captain.
The gates splintered suddenly, and with a roar of triumph the Nadir burst through, hurling themselves upon the defenders spearheaded by the white-haired templar.
Drawing a slender Ventrian dagger, Serbitar fought two-handed, blocking, stabbing, parrying, and cutting. Men fell before him, but always more leapt to fill the breach he created. Beside him the slim Vagrian carle-captain hacked and hammered at the oncoming barbarians. An ax splintered his shield, but hurling aside the fragments, he took a double-handed grip on his sword, bellowed his defiance, and launched himself forward. An ax crushed his ribs, and a lance tore into his thigh. He fell into the seething mass, stabbing left and right. A kick sent him sprawling to his back, and three spears buried themselves in his chest. Feebly he sought to lift his sword one last time, but an iron-studded boot stamped on his hand, while a blow from a wooden club ended his life.
Vintar fought coolly, pushing himself alongside the albino, waiting for the arrow he knew would be loosed at any second. Ducking beneath a slashing sword, he disemboweled his opponent and turned.
In the shadows of the sundered gates an archer drew back on his string, his fingers nestling against his cheek. The shaft leapt from the bow to take Vintar in the right eye, and he fell against the Nadir
spears.
The remaining defenders fought in an ever-tightening circle as dusk deepened into night. The Nadir cries were silenced now, the battle tense and silent but for the sounds of steel on steel on flesh.
Menahem was lifted from his feet by the force of a stabbing spear that tore into his lungs. His sword whistled down toward the neck of the kneeling lancer—and stopped.
Lightly he touched the blade to the man’s shoulder. Unable to believe his luck, the warrior dragged his spear free and buried it once more in the priest’s chest.
Now Serbitar was alone.
Momentarily the Nadir fell back, staring at the blood-covered albino. Much of the blood was his own. His cloak was in tatters, his armor gashed and dented, his helm long since knocked from his head.
He took three deep shuddering breaths, looked inside himself, and saw that he was dying. Reaching out with his mind, he sought Vintar and the others.
Silence.
A terrible silence.
It was all for nothing, then, he thought as the Nadir tensed for the kill. He chuckled wryly.
There was no Source.
No center to the universe.
In the last seconds left to him he wondered if his life had been a waste.
He knew it had not. For even if there was no Source, there ought to have been. For the Source was beautiful.
A Nadir warrior sprang forward. Serbitar flicked aside his thrust, burying his dagger in the man’s breast, but the pack surged in, a score of sharp blades meeting inside his frail form. Blood burst from his mouth, and he fell.
From a great distance came a voice:
“Take my hand, my brother. We travel.”
It was Vintar!
The Nadir surged and spread toward the deserted Delnoch buildings and the score of streets that led to Geddon and the keep beyond. In the front line Ogasi raised his sword, bellowing the Nadir victory chant. He began to run, then skidded to a halt.
Ahead of him on the open ground before the buildings stood a tall man with a trident beard, dressed in the white robes of the Sathuli. He carried two tulwars, curved and deadly. Ogasi advanced slowly, confused.
A Sathuli within the Drenai fortress?