“I understand.”
“I feel so helpless watching men die in here.” She smiled, “I don’t like feeling helpless, I’m not used to it.”
He watched her from the doorway, her tall figure draped in a white cloak, the night breeze billowing her hair.
“I feel helpless, too,” he said softly.
The last death had touched him more deeply than it should have, but then, he had known the man, whereas others were but nameless strangers.
Carin, the former miller. Calvar remembered that the man had a wife and son living at Delnoch.
“Well, at least someone will mourn for you, Carin,” he whispered to the stars.
25
Rek sat and watched the stars shining high above the keep tower and the passage of an occasional cloud, black against the moonlit sky. The clouds were like cliffs in the sky, jagged and threatening, inexorable and sentient. Rek pulled his gaze from the window and rubbed his eyes. He had known fatigue before but never this soul-numbing weariness, this depression of the spirit. The room was dark now. He had forgotten to light the candles, so intent had he been on the darkening sky. He glanced about him. So open and welcoming during the hours of daylight, the room was now shadow-haunted and empty of life. He was an interloper. He drew his cloak about him.
He missed Virae, but she was working at the field hospital with the exhausted Calvar Syn. Nevertheless the need in him was great, and he rose to go to her. Instead he just stood there. Cursing, he lit the candles. Logs lay ready in the fireplace, so he lit the fire—though it was not cold—and sat in the firm leather chair watching the small flames grow through the kindling and eat into the thicker logs above. The breeze fanned the flame, causing the shadows to dance, and Rek began to relax.
“You fool,” he said to himself as the flames roared and he began to sweat. He removed his cloak and boots and pulled the chair back from the blaze.
A soft tap at the door roused Rek from his thoughts. He called out, and Serbitar entered the room. For a moment Rek did not recognize him; he was without his armor, dressed in a tunic of green, his long white hair tied at the nape of the neck.
“Am I disturbing you, Rek?” he said.
“Not at all. Sit down and join me.”
“Thank you. Are you cold?”
“No. I just like to watch fires burn.”
“I do, too. It helps me think. A primal memory, perhaps, of a warm cave and safety from predatory animals,” said Serbitar.
“I wasn’t alive then—despite my haggard appearance.”
“But you were. The atoms that make up your body are as old as the universe.”
“I have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about, though I don’t doubt that it is all true,” said Rek.
An uneasy silence developed, then both men spoke at once, and Rek laughed. Serbitar smiled and shrugged.
“I am unused to casual conversation. Unskilled.”
“Most people are when it comes down to it. It’s an art,” said Rek. “The thing to do is relax and enjoy the silences. That’s what friends are all about; they are people with whom you can be silent.”
“Truly?”
“My word of honor as an earl.”
“I am glad to see you retain your humor. I would have thought it impossible to do so under the circumstances.”
“Adaptability, my dear Serbitar. You can only spend so long thinking about death—then it becomes boring. I have discovered that my great fear is not of dying but of being a bore.”
“You are seldom boring, my friend.”
“Seldom? ‘Never’ is the word I was looking for.”
“I beg your pardon. ‘Never’ is the word I was, of course, seeking.”
“How will tomorrow be?”
“I cannot say,” answered Serbitar swiftly. “Where is the lady Virae?”
“With Calvar Syn. Half the civilian nurses have fled south.”
“You cannot blame them,” said Serbitar. He stood and walked to the window. “The stars are bright tonight,” he said. “Though I suppose it would be more accurate to say that the angle of the earth makes visibility stronger.”
“I think I prefer ‘the stars are bright tonight,’ ” said Rek, who had joined Serbitar at the window.
Below them Virae was walking slowly, a white cloak wrapped about her shoulders and her long hair flowing in the night breeze.
“I think I will join her, if you’ll excuse me,” said Rek.
Serbitar smiled. “Of course. I will sit by the fire and think, if I may!”
“Make yourself at home,” said Rek, pulling on his boots.
Moments after Rek had left, Vintar entered. He, too, had forsaken armor for a simple tunic of white wool, hooded and thick.
“That was painful for you, Serbitar. You should have allowed me to come,” he said, patting the younger man’s shoulder.
“I could not tell him the truth.”
“But you did not lie,” whispered Vintar.
“When does evasion of the truth become a lie?”
“I do not know. But you brought them together, and that was your purpose. They have this night.”
“Should I have told him?”
“No. He would have sought to alter that which cannot be altered.”
“Cannot or must not?” asked Serbitar.
“Cannot. He could order her not to fight tomorrow, and she would refuse. He cannot lock her away; she is an earl’s daughter.”
“If we told her?”
“She would refuse to accept it or else defy fate.”
“Then she is doomed.”
“No. She is merely going to die.”
“I will do everything in my power to protect her, Vintar. You know that.”
“As will I. But we will fail. Tomorrow night you must show the earl Egel’s secret.”
“He will be in no mood to see it.”
Rek put his arm about her shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed her cheek.
“I love you,” he whispered.
She smiled and leaned into him, saying nothing.
“I simply can’t say it,” said Virae, her large eyes turned full upon him.
“That’s all right. Do you feel it?”
“You know that I do. I just find it hard to say. Romantic words sound … strange … clumsy when I use them. It’s as if my throat wasn’t made to form the sounds. I feel foolish. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He nodded and kissed her again. “And anyway, I haven’t had your practice.”
“True,” he said.
“What does that mean?” she snapped.
“I was just agreeing with you.”
“Well, don’t. I’m in no mood for humor. It’s easy for you—you’re a talker, a storyteller. Your conceit carries you on. I want to say all the things I feel, but I cannot. And then, when you say them first, my throat just seizes up and I know I should say something, but I still can’t.”
“Listen, lovely lady, it doesn’t matter! They are just words, as you say. I’m good with words; you’re good with actions. I know that you love me; I don’t expect you to echo me every time I tell you how I feel. I was just thinking earlier about something Horeb told me years ago. He said that for every man there is the one woman and that I would know mine when I saw her. And I do.”
“When I saw you,” she said, turning in to him and hugging his waist, “I thought you were a popinjay.” She laughed.
“You should have seen your face as that outlaw charged toward you!”
“I was concentrating. I’ve told you before that marks-manship was never my strong point.”
“You were petrified.”
“True.”
“But you still rescued me.”
“True. I’m a natural hero.”
“No, you’re not, and that’s why I love you. You’re just a man who does his best and tries to be honorable. That is rare.”
“Despite my conceit—and you may find this hard to believe—I get very uncomfortable when faced with complimen
ts.”
“But I want to say what I feel; it’s important to me. You are the first man I ever really felt comfortable with as a woman. You brought me to life. I may die during this siege, but I want you to know that it has been worth it.”
“Don’t talk about dying. Look at the stars. Feel the night. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Why don’t you take me back to the keep and then I can show you how actions speak louder than words.”
“Why don’t I just do that!”
They made love without passion but gently, lovingly, and fell asleep watching the stars through the bedroom window.
The Nadir captain Ogasi urged his men on, baying the war chant of Ulric’s Wolfshead tribe and smashing his ax into the face of a tall defender. The man’s hands scrabbled at the wound as he fell back. The hideous battle song carried them forward, cleaving the ranks and gaining them a foothold on the grass beyond.
But as always Deathwalker and the white templars rallied the defenders.
Ogasi’s hatred gave him power as he cut left and right, trying to force his way toward the old man. A sword cut his brow, and he staggered momentarily, recovering to disembowel the swordsman. On the left the line was being pushed back, but on the right it was sweeping out like the horn of a bull.
The powerful Nadir wanted to scream his triumph to the skies.
At last they had them!
But again the Drenai rallied. Pushing himself back into the throng in order to wipe away the blood from his eyes, Ogasi watched the tall Drenai and his sword maiden block the horn as it swung. Leading maybe twenty warriors, the tall man in the silver breastplate and blue cape seemed to have gone mad. His laughter sang out over the Nadir chant, and men fell back before him.
His baresark rage carried him deep among the tribesmen, and he used no defense. His red-drenched sword blade sliced, hammered, and cut into their ranks. Beside him the woman ducked and parried, protecting his left, her own slender blade every bit as deadly.
Slowly the horn collapsed in upon itself, and Ogasi found himself being drawn back to the battlements. He tripped over the body of a Drenai archer who was still clutching his bow. Kneeling, Ogasi dragged it from the dead hand and pulled a black-shafted arrow from the quiver. Leaping lightly to the battlements, he strained for sight of Deathwalker, but the old man was at the center, obscured by Nadir bodies. Not so the tall baresarker—men were scattering before him. Ogasi notched the arrow to the string, drew, aimed, and with a whispered curse let fly.
The shaft skinned Rek’s forearm—and flew on.
Virae turned, seeking Rek, and the shaft punched through her mail shirt to bury itself below her right breast. She grunted at the impact, staggered, and half fell. A Nadir warrior broke through the line, racing toward her.
Gritting her teeth, she drew herself upright, blocked his wild attack, and opened his jugular with a backhand cut.
“Rek!” she called, panic welling within her as her lungs began to bubble, absorbing the arterial blood. But he could not hear her. Pain erupted, and she fell, twisting her body away from the arrow so as not to drive it deeper.
Serbitar ran to her side, lifting her head.
“Damn!” she said. “I’m dying!”
He touched her hand, and immediately the pain vanished.
“Thank you, friend! Where’s Rek?”
“He is baresark, Virae. I could not reach him now.”
“Oh, gods! Listen to me—don’t let him be alone for a while after … you know. He is a great romantic fool, and I think he might do something silly. You understand?”
“I understand. I will stay with him.”
“No, not you. Send Druss. He is older, and Rek worships him.” She turned her eyes to the sky. A solitary storm cloud floated there, lost and angry. “He warned me to wear a breastplate, but it’s so damned heavy.” The cloud seemed larger now. She tried to mention it to Serbitar, but the cloud loomed and the darkness engulfed her.
Rek stood at the balcony window, gripping the rail, tears streaming from his eyes and uncontrollable sobs bursting through gritted teeth. Behind him lay Virae, still, cold, and at peace. Her face was white, her breast red from the arrow wound that had pierced a lung. The blood had stopped flowing now.
Shuddering breaths filled Rek’s lungs as he fought to control his grief. Blood dripped from a forgotten wound in his forearm. He rubbed his eyes and turned back to the bed; sitting beside her, he lifted her arm and felt for a pulse, but there was nothing.
“Virae!” he said softly. “Come back. Come back. Listen. I love you! You’re the one.” He leaned over her, watching her face. A tear appeared there, then another … But they were his own. He lifted her head and cradled it in his arms. “Wait for me,” he whispered. “I’m coming.” He fumbled at his belt, pulling the Lentrian dagger from its sheath, and held it to his wrist.
“Put it down, boy,” said Druss from the doorway. “It would be meaningless.”
“Get out!” shouted Rek. “Leave me.”
“She’s gone, lad. Cover her.”
“Cover her? Cover my Virae! No! No, I can’t. Oh, gods in Missael, I can’t just cover her face.”
“I had to once,” said the old man as Rek slumped forward, tears stinging his eyes and silent sobs racking his frame. “My woman died. You are not the only one to face death.”
For a long while Druss stood silently in the doorway, his heart aching. Then he pushed the door shut and walked into the room.
“Leave her for a while and talk to me, boy,” he said, taking Rek by the arm. “Here by the window. Tell me again how you met.”
And Rek told him of the attack in the forest, the killing of Reinard, the ride to the temple, and the journey to Delnoch.
“Druss!”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I can live with this.”
“I have known men who couldn’t. But there is no need to cut your wrists. There’s a horde of tribesmen out there who will do it for you gladly.”
“I don’t care about them anymore; they can have the damned place. I wish I had never come here.”
“I know,” said Druss gently. “I spoke to Virae yesterday in the hospital. She told me she loved you. She said—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Yes, you do, because it’s a memory you can hold. And it keeps her alive in your mind. She said that if she died, it would be worth it just to have met you. She worshiped you, Rek. She told me of the day you stood by her against Reinard and all his men—she was so proud of you. I was, too, when I heard about it. You had something, boy, that few men ever possess.”
“And now I’ve lost it.”
“But you had it! That can never be taken away from you. Her only regret was she was never really able to tell you how she felt.”
“Oh, she told me—it didn’t need words. What happened to you when your wife died? How did it feel?”
“I don’t think I need to tell you. You know how I felt. And don’t think it’s any easier after thirty years. If anything, it becomes harder. Now, Serbitar is waiting to see you in the hall. He says it’s important.”
“Nothing is important anymore. Druss, will you cover her face? I couldn’t bear to do it.”
“Yes. Then you must see the albino. He has something for you.”
Serbitar was waiting at the bottom of the stairs as Rek slowly descended to the main hall. The albino wore full armor and a helm topped with white horsehair. The visor was down, shielding his eyes. He looked, Rek thought, like a silver statue. Only his hands were bare, and they were white as polished ivory.
“You wanted me?” said Rek.
“Follow me,” said Serbitar. Turning on his heel, he strode from the hall toward the spiral stone stairwell leading to the dungeons below the keep. Rek had been ready to refuse any request, but now he was forced to follow, and his anger grew. The albino stopped at the top of the stairs and removed a flaming torch from a copper wall bracket.
“W
here are we going?” asked Rek.
“Follow me,” repeated Serbitar.
Slowly and carefully the two men descended the cracked, worn steps until at last they reached the first level of dungeons. Long disused, the hallway glittered with water-sodden cobwebs and wet moss-covered arches. Serbitar moved on until they reached an oak door, a rusty bolt holding it fast. He struggled with the bolt for some moments, finally working it free, then both men had to haul on the door before it creaked and groaned and opened. Another stairwell beyond yawned dark before them.
Once again Serbitar started down. The steps ended in a long corridor, ankle-deep in water. They waded through to a final door shaped like an oak leaf and bearing a gold plaque with inscribed lettering in the Elder tongue.
“What does it say?” asked Rek.
“It says, To the worthy—welcome. Herein lies Egel’s secret and the soul of the Earl of Bronze.’ ”
“What does it mean?”
Serbitar tried the door handle, but the door was locked, seemingly from within, since no bolt, chain, or keyhole could be seen.
“Do we break it down?” said Rek.
“No. You open it.”
“It is locked. Is this a game?”
“Try it.”
Rek turned the handle gently, and the door swung open without a sound. Soft lights sprang up within the room, glowing globes of glass set in the recesses of the walls. The room was dry, though now the water from the corridor outside flowed in and spread across the richly carpeted floor.
At the center of the room, on a wooden stand, was a suit of armor unlike anything Rek had ever seen. It was wonderfully crafted in bronze, the overlapping scales of metal glittering in the light. The breastplate carried a bronze eagle with wings flaring out over the chest and up to the shoulders. Atop this was a helmet, winged and crested with an eagle’s head. Gauntlets there were, scaled and hinged, and greaves. Upon the table before the armor lay a bronze-ringed mail shirt lined with softest leather and mail leggings with bronze-hinged kneecaps. But above all Rek was drawn to the sword encased in a block of solid crystal. The blade was golden and over two feet in length; the hilt was double-handed, the guard a pair of flaring wings.
“It is the armor of Egel, the first Earl of Bronze,” said Serbitar.