"True," he said.
"What does that mean?" she snapped.
"I was just agreeing with you."
"Well, don't. I'm in no mood for humour. 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 towards you!"
"I was concentrating. I've told you before that marksmanship 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 honourable. That is rare."
"Despite my conceit — and you may find this hard to believe — I get very uncomfortable when faced with compliments."
"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 seige, 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 than 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 axe 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 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 towards 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 defence. 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 centre and 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 towards her.
Gritting her teeth she drew herself upright, blocked his wild attack and opened his jugular with a back-hand 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 which 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 here who will do it for you gladly."
"I don't care about them any more — 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 worshipped 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."