‘Why?’ asked Hogun.
‘Well, if he hadn’t judged it you would have done so. And then I would have missed the pleasure of beating you.’
‘You conceited pup!’ said Hogun laughing. ‘The day has not yet come when you could breach my guard – even with a wooden sword.’
‘There’s a first time for everything. And you’re not getting any younger, Hogun. Why, you must be over thirty. One foot in the grave!’
‘We shall see. A side bet, perhaps?’
‘A flagon of Red?’ said Elicas.
‘Done, my lad! Nothing tastes sweeter than wine another man has paid for.’
‘As I shall no doubt find out this evening,’ retorted Elicas.
14
The marriage was a simple one – performed by the Abbot of Swords, Vintar, and witnessed by the captain and mate of the Wastrel. The sea was calm, the night sky cloudless. Overhead gulls wheeled and dived, a sure sign of approaching land.
Antaheim, one of The Thirty, tall and slender, his dark features showing his Vagrian descent, supplied the ring: an unadorned band of gold.
Now as the dawn neared and the others slept, Rek stood alone at the prow, starlight glinting on his silver head-band, wind streaming his hair like a dark banner.
The die was cast now. He was chained by his own hand to the Delnoch cause. Sea spray stung his eyes and he stepped back, sitting down with his back to the rail and hugging his cloak tight about him. All his life he had sought direction and an escape from fear, an end to trembling hands and an unsteady heart. Now his fears had vanished like candle wax before a flame.
Earl Regnak of Dros Delnoch, Warden of the North.
At first Virae had refused his offer, but ultimately he knew she would be forced to accept. If she had not married him, Abalayn would have sent a husband post-haste. It was inconceivable that Delnoch should lack a leader, and equally inconceivable for a woman to take on the duties.
The captain had sprinkled their heads with sea water in the ritual blessing, but Vintar, a lover of truth, had omitted the blessing of fertility and replaced it with the more simple: ‘Be happy, my children, now and until the end of your lives.’
Druss had escaped the attempt on his life, Gan Orrin had found his strength, and The Thirty were only two days from Dros Purdol and the last stage of their journey. The winds had been kind and Wastrel was two, maybe three days ahead of schedule.
Rek studied the stars and remembered the sightless seer and his prophetic verse.
‘The earl and the legend will be together at the wall, and men shall dream, and men shall die, but shall the fortress fall?’
In his mind’s eye Rek pictured Virae as she had been when he left her almost an hour ago, her light hair tangled upon the pillow, her eyes closed and her face peaceful in rest. He had wanted to touch her, to pull her close and feel her arms about him. Instead he had covered her gently with a blanket, dressed and quietly climbed to the deck. Away to starboard he could hear the dolphins’ ghostly music.
Now he pulled himself upright and returned to his cabin. Once more Virae had kicked away the blanket. Rek undressed slowly and eased himself down beside her.
And this time he touched her.
Amidships, the leaders of The Thirty finished their prayers and broke bread together, which Vintar blessed. They ate in silence, breaking the bond of unity to enjoy their own thoughts. At last Serbitar leaned back and signalled the opening. Their minds blended together.
‘The old man is a fearsome warrior,’ said Menahem.
‘But he is no strategist,’ said Serbitar. ‘His method of holding the Dros will be to man the walls and do battle until a conclusion is reached.’
‘There is little choice,’ said Menahem. ‘We will offer no other option.’
‘That is true. What I am saying is that Druss will merely pack the walls with men, which is not a serviceable idea. He has ten thousand men and to defend efficiently he will only be able to use seven thousand at any given time. The other walls must be manned, essential services run, messengers assigned. There must also be a floating force ready to offer instant aid to any weak spot.