‘I do not understand, my lord. What would you have me say?’
‘You will say that you have failed.’
‘Failed? In what? You speak in riddles. Are you mad?’
‘No. Just tired. You betrayed us, Bricklyn, but then I expect nothing less from your breed. Therefore I am not angry. Or vengeful. You have taken Ulric’s pay and now you may go to him. The letter from Abalayn is a forgery and Woundweaver will be here in five days with over fifty thousand men. Outside there are three thousand Sathuli and we can hold the wall. Now be gone! Hogun knows that you are a traitor and has told me that he will kill you if he sees you. Go now.’
For several minutes Bricklyn sat stunned, then he shook his head. ‘This is madness! You cannot hold! It is Ulric’s day, can you not see it? The Drenai are finished and Ulric’s star shines. What do you hope to achieve?’
Rek slowly drew a long, slender dagger and placed it on the table before him.
‘Go now,’ he repeated quietly.
Bricklyn rose and stormed to the door. He turned in the doorway.
‘You fool!’ he spat. ‘Use the dagger on yourself, for what the Nadir will do when they take you will make merry viewing.’ Then he was gone.
Hogun stepped from behind a tapestry-covered alcove and moved to the table. His head was bandaged and his face pale. In his hand he held his sword.
‘How could you let him go, Rek? How?’
Rek smiled. ‘Because I couldn’t be bothered to kill him.’
30
The last candle guttered and died as a light autumn wind billowed the curtains. Rek slept on, head resting on his arms at the table where only an hour before he had sent Bricklyn to the Nadir. His sleep was light, but dreamless. He shivered as the room became cooler, then awoke with a start in the darkness. Fear touched him and he reached for his dagger. He shivered again: it was cold . . . so cold. He glanced at the fire. It was blazing, but no heat reached him. He stood and walked towards it, squatting in front of it and opening his hands to the heat. Nothing. Confused, he stood once more and turned back to the table, and then the shock hit him.
Head resting on his arms, the figure of Earl Regnak still slept there. He fought down panic, watching his sleeping form, noting the weariness in the gaunt face, the dark-hollowed eyes and the lines of strain about the mouth.
Then he noticed the silence. Even at this late hour of deepest darkness, some sounds should be heard from sentries, or servants or the few cooks preparing the morning’s breakfast. But there was nothing. He moved to the doorway and beyond into the darkened corridor, then beyond that into the shadow of the portcullis gate. He was alone – beyond the gate were the walls, but no sentries paced them. He walked on in the darkness, and the clouds cleared and the moon shone brightly.
The fortress was deserted.
From the high walls of Geddon he looked to the north. The plain was empty. No Nadir tents were pitched there.
So he was truly alone. Panic left him and a deep sense of peace covered his soul like a-warm blanket. He sat on the ramparts, gazing back at the Keep.
Was this a taste of death, he wondered? Or merely a dream? He cared not. Whether a foretaste of tomorrow’s reality or the result of a needed fantasy was immaterial. He was enjoying the moment.
And then, with a deep sense of warmth, he knew that he was not alone. His heart swelled and tears came to his eyes. He turned and she was there: dressed as he had first seen her, with a bulky sheepskin jerkin and woollen troos, she opened her arms and walked into his embrace. He held her tightly to him, pressing his face into her hair. For a long time they stood thus, while deep sobs racked his body. Finally the crying subsided and he gently released her. She looked up at him and smiled.