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 these. 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 first heard the sound of steel on steel he had rushed forward. Within the alley Horeb was fighting a losing battle, his kitchen knife no match for three swordsmen. Yet the old man had been a warrior and moved well. Rek had been frozen to the spot, his own sword forgotten. He tried to move forward, but his legs 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, an owl hooted. Rek's shaking hand curled round 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 border war and the enjoyment 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 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 Can Javi, leaning back in his carved chair. "You know there are rumours that the Nadir are preparing a march on the south?"
"There are always rumours 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 finance for his building programme."
"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 weeps with the pain and holds his body together with crimson fingers, hoping for a miracle. Hunger, cold, fear, disease, gangrene, death!
War for soldiers.
The day he left Dros Corteswain he was approached by one of the Culs, who nervously offered him a tight-wrapped bundle.
"From the troop, sir," he 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 which 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 was 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 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 armour 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. No 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 defence 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 this moment Rek loosed a shaft at the tall outlaw's back, which lanced through his left calf. Swiftly he notched a second arrow, as the bewildered man spun round, saw Rek and hobbled towards him, screaming hatred.
Rek drew back the string until it touched his cheek, locked his left arm and loosed the shaft.