"We are? That's terrible. I would never have stayed had I known. Luckily, however, I do just happen to have a couple of flagons of Lentrian Red stored in my new quarters. So at least we can enjoy tonight. We might even be able to save some for tomorrow."
"That's a good idea," said Druss. "Maybe we could bottle it, and lay it down for a couple of months to age a little. Lentrian Red, my foot! That stuff of yours is brewed in Skultik from soap, potatoes and rats' entrails. You would get more taste from a Nadir slop-bucket."
"You have the advantage of me there, old horse, having never tasted a Nadir slop-bucket. But my brew does hit the spot rather."
"I think I'd rather suck a Nadir's armpit," muttered Druss.
"Fine! I'll drink it all myself," snapped Bowman.
"No need to get touchy, boy. I'm with you. I have always believed that friends should suffer together."
* * *
The artery writhed under Virae's fingers like a snake, spewing blood into the cavity of the stomach.
"Tighter!" ordered Calvar Syn, his own hands deep in the wound, pushing aside blue, slimy entrails as he sought frantically to stem the bleeding within. It was useless, he knew it was useless, but he owed it to the man beneath him to use every ounce of his skill. Despite all his efforts he could feel the life oozing between his fingers. Another stitch, another small pyhrric victory.
The man died as the eleventh stitch sealed the stomach wall.
"He's dead?" asked Virae. Calvar nodded, straightening his back. "But the blood is still flowing," she said.
"It will do so for a few moments."
"I really thought he would live," she whispered. Calvar wiped his bloody hands on a linen cloth and walked round beside her. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her towards him.
"His chances were one in a thousand, even if I had stopped the bleeding. The lance cut his spleen and gangrene was almost certain."
Her eyes were red, her face grey. She blinked and her body shook, but there were no tears as she looked down at the dead face.
"I thought he had a beard," she said, confused.
"That was the one before."
"Oh, yes. He died too."
"You should rest." Putting his arms round her, he led her from the room and out into the ward, past the stacked rows of triple-tiered bunk beds. Orderlies moved quietly among the rows. Everywhere the smell of death and the sweet, nauseous odour of putrefaction was mixed with antiseptic bitterness of Lorassium juice and hot water scented with lemon mint.
Perhaps it was the unwelcome perfume, but she was surprised to find that the well was not dry and tears could still flow.
He led her to a back room, filled a basin with warm water and washed the blood from her hands and face, dabbing her gently as if she were a child.
"He told me that I love war," she said. "But it's not true. Maybe it was then. I don't know any more."
"Only a fool loves war," said Calvar, "or a man who has never seen it. The trouble is that the survivors forget about the horrors and remember only the battle lust. They pass on that memory, and other men hunger for it. Put on your cloak and get some air. Then you will feel better."
"I don't think I can come back tomorrow, Calvar. I will stay with Rek at the wall."
"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, 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.
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.
His 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 recognise him; he was without his armour, 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 to 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 honour as an Earl."
"I am glad to see you retain your humour. 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 which I was, of course, seeking."
"How will tomorrow be?"
"I cannot say," answered Serbitar swiftly. "Where is the lady Virae?"
"With Calvar Syn. Half of 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 armour 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 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.
