Drenai Saga 01 - Legend Page 3

  A skinny fox poked its snout through a bush, peering at the fire. On impulse, Rek threw it a strip of beef. The animal flicked its eyes from the man to the morsel and back again before darting out to snatch the meat from the frozen ground. Then it vanished into the night. Rek held out his hands to the fire and thought of Horeb.

  The burly innkeeper had raised him after Rek’s father had been killed in the northern wars against the Sathuli. Honest, loyal, strong, and dependable—Horeb was all of those. And he was kind, a prince among men.

  Rek had managed to repay him one well-remembered night when three Vagrian deserters had attacked him in an alley near the inn.

  Luckily Rek had been drinking, and when he had first heard the sound of steel on steel, he had rushed forward. Within the alley Horeb had been fighting a losing battle, his kitchen knife no match for three swordsmen. Yet the old man had been a warrior and had moved well. Rek had been frozen to the spot, his own sword forgotten. He had tried to move forward, but his legs had refused the order. Then a sword had cut through Horeb’s guard, opening a huge wound in his leg.

  Rek had screamed, and the sound had released his terror.

  The bloody skirmish was over in seconds. Rek took out the first assailant with a throat slash, parried a thrust from the second, and shoulder-charged the third into a wall. From the ground Horeb grabbed the third man, pulling him down and stabbing out with his kitchen knife. The second man fled into the night.

  “You were wonderful, Rek,” said Horeb. “Believe me, you fight like a veteran.”

  Veterans don’t freeze with fear, thought Rek.

  Now he fed some twigs to the flames. A cloud obscured the moon, and an owl hooted. Rek’s shaking hand curled around his dagger.

  Damn the dark, he thought. And curse all heroes!

  He had been a soldier for a while, stationed at Dros Corteswain, and had enjoyed it. But then the Sathuli skirmishes had become a border war, and the enjoyment had palled. He had done well, been promoted; his senior officers had told him he had a fine feel for tactics. But they did not know about the sleepless nights. His men had respected him, he thought. But that was because he was careful, even cautious. He had left before his nerve could betray him.

  “Are you mad, Rek?” Gan Javi had asked him when he had resigned his commission. “The war is expanding. We’ve got more troops coming, and a fine officer like you can be sure of promotion. You’ll lead more than a century in six months. You could be offered the gan eagle.”

  “I know all that, sir, and believe me, I’m really sorry I shall be missing the action. But it’s a question of family business. Damn, I would cut off my right arm to stay; you know that.”

  “I do, boy. And we’ll miss you, by Missael. Your troop will be shattered. If you change your mind, there will be a place for you here. Any time. You’re a born soldier.”

  “I’ll remember that, sir. Thank you for all your help and encouragement.”

  “One more thing, Rek,” said Gan Javi, leaning back in his carved chair. “You know there are rumors that the Nadir are preparing a march on the south?”

  “There are always rumors of that, sir,” answered Rek.

  “I know; they’ve been circulating for years. But this Ulric is a canny one. He’s conquered most of the tribes now, and I think he’s almost ready.”

  “But Abalayn has just signed a treaty with him,” said Rek. “Mutual peace in return for trade concessions and financing for his building program.”

  “That’s what I mean, lad. I’ll say nothing against Abalayn; he’s ruled the Drenai for twenty years. But you don’t stop a wolf by feeding it—believe me! Anyway, what I’m saying is that men like yourselves will be needed before long, so don’t get rusty.”

  The last thing the Drenai needed now was a man who was afraid of the dark. What they needed was another Karnak the One-Eyed—a score of them. An Earl of Bronze. A hundred like Druss the Legend. And even if, by some miracle, this were to happen, would even these stem the tide of half a million tribesmen?

  Who could even picture such a number?

  They would wash over Dros Delnoch like an angry sea, Rek knew.

  If I thought there was a chance, I still wouldn’t go. Face it, he thought. Even if victory was certain, still he would avoid the battle.

  Who will care in a hundred years whether the Drenai survived? It would be like Skeln Pass, shrouded in legend and glorified beyond truth.

  War!

  Flies settling like a black stain over a man’s entrails as he wept with the pain and held his body together with crimson fingers, hoping for a miracle. Hunger, cold, fear, disease, gangrene, death!

  War for soldiers.

  The day he had left Dros Corteswain, he had been approached by one of the culs, who had nervously offered him a tightly-wrapped bundle.

  “From the troop, sir,” he had said.

  He had opened it, embarrassed and empty of words, to see a blue cloak with an eagle clasp in crafted bronze.

  “I, don’t know how to thank you all.”

  “The men want me to say … well, we’re sorry you’re leaving. That’s all, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Korvac. Family business, you know?”

  The man had nodded, probably wishing he had family business that would allow him to depart the Dros. But culs had no commission to resign; only the dun class could leave a fortress during a war.

  “Well, good luck, sir. See you soon, I hope … we all hope.”

  “Yes! Soon.”

  That had been two years ago. Gan Javi had died from a stroke, and several of Rek’s brother officers had been killed in the Sathuli battles. No message had reached him of individual culs.

  The days passed—cold, gloomy, but mercifully without incident—until the morning of the fifth day, when, on a high trail skirting a grove of elm, he heard the one sound he disliked above all others: the clash of steel on steel. He should have ridden on; he knew he should. But for some reason his curiosity fractionally outweighed his fear. He hobbled the horse, swung the quiver to his back, and strung the horn bow. Then carefully he worked his way through the trees and down into the snow-covered glen. Moving stealthily, with catlike care, he came to a clearing. Sounds of battle echoed in the glade.

  A young woman in armor of silver and bronze stood with her back to a tree, desperately fending off a combined assault from three outlaws, burly men and bearded, armed with swords and daggers. The woman held a slender blade, a flickering, dancing rapier that cut and thrust with devastating speed.

  The three, clumsy swordsmen at best, were hampering each other. But the girl was tiring fast.

  These were Reinard’s men, Rek knew, cursing his own curiosity. One of them cried out as the rapier lanced across his forearm.

  “Take that, you dung beetle,” shouted the girl.

  Rek smiled. Not a beauty, but she could fence.

  He notched an arrow to his bow and waited for the right moment to let fly. The girl ducked under a vicious cut and flashed her blade through the eye of the swordsman. As he screamed and fell, the other two fell back, more wary now; they moved apart, ready to attack from both flanks. The girl had been dreading this moment, for there was no defense but flight. Her gaze flickered from man to man. Take the tall one first, forget about the other, and hope his first thrust is not mortal. Maybe she could take them both with her.

  The tall one moved to the left while his comrade crossed to the right. At that moment Rek loosed a shaft at the tall outlaw’s back that lanced through his left calf. Swiftly he notched a second arrow as the bewildered man spun around, saw Rek, and hobbled toward him, screaming hatred.

  Rek drew back the string until it touched his cheek, locked his left arm, and loosed the shaft.

  This time the aim was slightly better. He had been aiming for the chest—the largest target—but the arrow was high, and now the outlaw lay on his back, the black shaft jutting from his forehead and blood bubbling to the snow.

  “You took your time getti
ng involved,” said the girl coolly, stepping across the body of the third outlaw and wiping her slender blade on his shirt.

  Rek tore his eyes from the face of the man he had killed.

  “I just saved your life,” he said, checking an angry retort.

  She was tall and well built, almost mannish, Rek thought, her hair long and mousy blond, unkempt. Her eyes were blue and deep-set beneath thick dark brows that indicated an uncertain temper. Her figure was disguised by the silver steel mail shirt and bronze shoulder pads; her legs were encased in shapeless green woolen trews laced to the thigh with leather straps.

  “Well, what are you staring at?” she demanded. “Never seen a woman before?”

  “Well, that answers the first question,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “Oh, very dry!” She retrieved a sheepskin jerkin from beneath the tree, dusting off the snow, and slipping it on. It did nothing to enhance her appearance, thought Rek.

  “They attacked me,” she said. “Killed my horse, the bastards! Where’s your horse?”

  “Your gratitude overwhelms me,” said Rek, an edge of anger in his voice. “Those are Reinard’s men.”

  “Really? Friend of yours, is he?”

  “Not exactly. But if he knew what I had done, he would roast my eyes on a fire and serve them to me as an appetizer.”

  “All right, I appreciate your point. I’m extremely grateful. Now, where’s your horse?”

  Rek ignored her, gritting his teeth against his anger. He walked to the dead outlaw and dragged his arrows clear, wiping them on the man’s jerkin. Then he methodically searched the pockets of all three. Seven silver coins and several gold rings the richer, he then returned to the girl.

  “My horse has one saddle. I ride it,” he said icily. “I’ve done about all I want to do for you. You’re on your own now.”

  “Damned chivalrous of you,” she said.

  “Chivalry isn’t my strong point,” he said, turning away.

  “Neither is marksmanship,” she retorted.

  “What?”

  “You were aiming for his back from twenty paces, and you hit his leg. It’s because you closed one eye, ruined your perspective.”

  “Thanks for the archery instruction. Good luck!”

  “Wait!” she said. He turned. “I need your horse.”

  “So do I.”

  “I will pay you.”

  “He’s not for sale.”

  “All right. Then I will pay you to take me to where I can buy a horse.”

  “How much?” he asked.

  “One golden Raq.”

  “Five,” he said.

  “I could buy three horses for that,” she stormed.

  “It’s a seller’s market,” he retorted.

  “Two, and that’s final.”

  “Three.”

  “All right, three. Now, where’s your horse?”

  “First the money, my lady.” He held out a hand. Her blue eyes were frosty as she removed the coins from a leather pouch and placed them in his palm. “My name is Regnak, Rek to my friends,” he said.

  “That’s of no interest to me,” she assured him.

  3

  They rode in a silence as frosty as the weather, the tall girl behind Rek in the saddle. He resisted the urge to spur the horse on at speed despite the fear gnawing at his belly. It would be unfair to say he was sorry he had rescued her; after all, it had done wonders for his self-esteem. His fear was of meeting Reinard now. This girl would never sit silent while he flattered and lied. And even if by some stroke of good fortune she did keep her mouth shut, she would certainly report him for giving information on caravan movements.

  The horse stumbled on a hidden root, and the girl pitched sideways. Rek’s hand lanced out, catching her arm and hauling her back in the saddle.

  “Put your arms around my waist, will you,” he said.

  “How much will it cost me?”

  “Just do it. It’s too cold to argue.”

  Her arms slid around him, her head resting against his back.

  Thick, dark clouds bunched above them, and the temperature began to drop.

  “We ought to make an early camp,” he stated. “The weather’s closing in.”

  “I agree,” she said.

  Snow began to fall, and the wind picked up. Rek dipped his head against the force of the storm, blinking against the cold flakes that blew into his eyes. He steered the gelding away from the trail and into the shelter of the trees, gripping the pommel of his saddle as the horse climbed a steep incline.

  An open campsite would be folly, he knew, in this freak storm. They needed a cave, or at least the lee of a rock face. For over an hour they moved on until at last they entered a clearing circled by oak and gorse. Within it was a crofter’s hut of log walls and earthen roof. Rek glanced at the stone chimney: no smoke.

  He heeled the tired gelding forward. At the side of the hut was a three-sided lean-to with a wicker roof bent by the weight of the snow upon it. He steered the horse inside.

  “Dismount,” he told the girl, but her hands did not move from his waist. He glanced down. The hands were blue, and he rubbed at them furiously. “Wake up!” he shouted. “Wake up, damn you!” Pulling her hands free, he slid from the saddle and caught her as she fell. Her lips were blue, her hair thick with ice. Lifting her over one shoulder, he removed the packs from the gelding, loosened the girth, and carried the girl to the hut. The wooden door was open, snow drifting into the cold interior as he stepped inside.

  The hut was one-roomed. He saw a cot in the corner beneath the only window, a hearth, some simple cupboards, and a wood store—enough for two, maybe three nights—stacked against the far wall. There were three crudely made chairs and a bench table roughly cut from an elm trunk. Rek tipped the unconscious girl on to the cot, found a stick broom under the table, and swept the snow from the room. He pushed the door shut, but a rotten leather hinge gave way and it tilted open again at the top. Cursing, he pulled the table to the doorway and heaved it against the frame.

  Tearing open his pack, Rek pulled his tinderbox free and moved to the hearth. Whoever had owned or built the holding had left a fire ready laid, as was the custom in the wild. Rek opened his small tinder pouch, making a mound of shredded dry leaves beneath the twigs in the grate. Over this he poured a little lantern oil from a leather flask and then struck his flint. His cold fingers were clumsy and the sparks would not take, so he stopped for a moment, forcing himself to take slow deep breaths. Then again he struck the flint, and this time a small flame flickered in the tinder and caught. He leaned forward, gently blowing it; then, as the twigs flared, he turned to sort smaller branches from the store, placing them gently atop the tiny fire. Flames danced higher.

  He carried two chairs to the hearth, placed his blankets over them before the blaze, and returned to the girl. She lay on the crude cot, scarcely breathing.

  “It’s the bloody armor,” he said. He fumbled with the straps of her jerkin, turning her over to pull it loose. Swiftly he stripped off her clothing and set to work rubbing warmth into her. He glanced at the fire, placed three more logs to feed the blaze, and then spread the blankets on the floor before it. Lifting the girl from the cot, he laid her back before the hearth, turning her over to rub her back.

  “Don’t you die on me!” he stormed, pummeling the flesh of her legs. “Don’t you damn well dare!” He wiped her hair with a towel and wrapped her in the blankets. The floor was cold, and frost seeped up from beneath the hut, so he pulled the cot to the hearth, then strained to lift her onto the bed. Her pulse was slow but steady.

  He gazed down at her face. It was beautiful. Not in any classic sense, he knew, for the brows were too thick and thunderous, the chin too square, and the lips too full. Yet there was strength there, and courage and determination. But more than this: In sleep a gentle, childlike quality found expression.

  He kissed her gently.

/>   Buttoning his sheepskin jacket, he pulled the table aside and stepped out into the storm. The gelding snorted as he approached. There was straw in the lean-to; taking a handful, he rubbed the horse’s back.

  “Going to be a cold night, boy. But you should be all right in here.” He spread the saddle blanket over the gelding’s broad back, fed him some oats, and returned to the hut.

  The girl’s color was better now, and she slept peacefully.

  Searching the cupboards, Rek found an old iron pan. From his pack, he took out a pound of dried beef and set about making soup. He was warmer now and removed his cloak and jacket. Outside the wind beat against the walls as the storm’s fury grew, but inside the fire blazed warmth and a soft red light filled the cabin. Rek pulled off his boots and rubbed his toes. He felt good. Alive.

  And damned hungry!

  He took a leather-covered clay mug from his pack and tried the soup. The girl stirred, and he toyed with the idea of waking her but dismissed it. As she was, she was lovely. Awake, she was a harridan. She rolled over and moaned, a long leg pushing from the blanket. Rek grinned as he remembered her body. Not at all mannish! She was just big but wonderfully proportioned. He stared at her leg, the smile fading. He pictured himself naked alongside her …

  “No, no, Rek,” he said aloud. “Forget it.”

  He covered her with the blanket and returned to his soup. Be prepared, he told himself. When she wakes, she will accuse you of taking advantage of her and cut your eyes out.

  Taking his cloak, he wrapped it around himself and stretched out beside the fire. The floor was warmer now. Adding some logs to the blaze, he pillowed his head on his arm and watched the dancers in the flames circle and jump, twist and turn …

  He slept.

  He awoke to the smell of frying bacon. The hut was warm, and his arm felt swollen and cramped. He stretched, groaned, and sat up. The girl was nowhere in sight. Then the door opened, and she stepped inside, brushing snow from her jerkin.

  “I’ve seen to your horse,” she said. “Are you fit to eat?”