‘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.