David Gemmell - The King Beyond the Gate

'He said so himself. We irritated him, he told me. Why did he let himself get killed for us?'

Ananais had no answer but Katan stepped forward.

'Because he was a hero. And that is what heroes do. You understand?'

Ceorl nodded. 'I didn't know he was a hero — he didn't say.'

'Maybe he didn't know,' said Katan.

Galand took the death of his brother hard. He withdrew into himself, suppressing his emotions, his dark eyes giving no hint of the agony he felt. He led his men on several raids against Drenai cavalry, hitting them fast and withdrawing at speed. Despite his desire to wreak vengeance upon them he remained a disciplined warrior — not for Galand the reckless charge, only the calculated risk. Among his three hundred men, losses were light and they cantered to the walls of Magadon having left only thirty-seven of their comrades buried back in the hills.

There was no gate at Magadon and the men released their horses and scaled rope ladders let down by the defenders. Galand was the last to climb the ramparts and at the top he turned, gazing back to the east. Somewhere there the body of Parsal was rotting on the grassland. No grave, no marker.

The war had claimed Galand's daughter and now his brother.

Soon it would claim him, he mused.

Strange how the thought struck no terror in him.

Among his men were another forty who had suffered wounds. He went down with them to the timber hospital where Valtaya and a dozen women tended them. Galand waved to the blonde woman and she smiled, then returned to her work stitching a shallow cut in a warrior's thigh.

He wandered out into the sunlight where one of his men brought him a loaf of bread and a jug of wine. Galand thanked him and sat down with his back to a tree. The bread was fresh, the wine young. One of his section leaders, a young farmer named Oranda, joined him. He had a thick bandage on his upper arm.

'They said the wound was clean — only six stitches. I should still be able to hold a shield.'

'Good,' said Galand absently. 'Have some wine?'

Oranda took a mouthful. 'It is a little young,' he said.

'Maybe we should lay it down for a month or two!'

'Point taken,' said Oranda, tilting the jug once more.

For a while they sat in silence, and the tension grew in Galand as he waited for the inevitable comment.

'I'm sorry about your brother,' said Oranda at last.

'All men die,' answered Galand.

'Yes. I lost friends in his force. The walls look strong, don't they? It's strange to see walls across this valley. I used to play here as a child and watch the wild horses run.'

Galand said nothing. Oranda handed him the wine-jug, wishing he could just get up and walk away, but he didn't want to be rude. When Valtaya joined them, Oranda greeted her with a grateful smile and slipped away.

Galand glanced up and smiled.

'You are looking lovely, lady. A vision.' She had removed the blood-drenched leather apron and now wore a dress of light blue cotton which moulded to her figure beautifully.

'Your eyes must be tired, blackboard. My hair is greasy and there are purple rings under my eyes. I feel wretched.'

'In the eye of the beholder,' he said. She sat beside him, laying her hand on his arm.

'I am truly sorry about Parsal.'

'All men die,' he said, tired of the repetition.

'But I am glad you are alive.'

'Are you?' he asked, his eyes cold. 'Why?'

'What a strange question for a friend to ask!'

'I am not your friend, Val. I am the man who loves you. There is a difference.'

'I am sorry, Galand. There is nothing I can say — you know that I am with Ananais.'

'And are you happy?'

'Of course I am — as happy as anyone can be in the middle of a war.'

'Why? Why do you love him?'

'I cannot answer that question. No woman could. Why do you love me?'

He tilted the wine-jug, ignoring the logic.

'What hurts is that there is no future for any of us,' he said, 'even if we should survive this battle. Ananais will never settle down to married life. He's no farmer, no merchant… He will leave you in some lonely city. And I shall return to my farm. None of us will be happy.'

'Don't drink any more, Galand. It is making you melancholy.'

'My daughter was a joyous creature and a real rascal. Many's the smack I laid on her leg and many the tear I wiped away. Had I known how short her life was to be… And now Parsal… I hope he died swiftly. I feel it in a very selfish way,' he said suddenly. 'My blood runs in not a single living being, bar me. When I am gone, it will be as if I never was.'

'Your friends will care,' she said.

He pulled his arm from her comforting touch and glared at her through angry eyes.

'I have no friends! I never had.'

The emperor sat within his tent of silk surrounded by his captains. His warmaster, Darik, was beside him. The tent was huge, split into four sections: the largest, where the warriors now sat, had room for fifty men though only twenty were present.

Ceska had grown fat over the years and his skin was pasty and blotched. His dark eyes glittered with feral intelligence and it was said that he had learned the ways of the Dark Templars and could read minds. His captains lived in a state of cold dread around him, for often he would suddenly point at a man and scream 'Traitor!' That man would die horribly.

Darik was his most trusted warrior, a general of great guile, second only to the legendary Baris of the Dragon. A tall man in his early fifties, slender and wiry, Darik was clean-shaven and looked younger than his years.

Having heard the reports, and the numbers of the slain, Darik spoke: "The raids seem casual, haphazard, yet I sense unity of thought behind them. What do you say, Maymon?'

The Dark Templar nodded. 'We are almost through their defences, but already we can see a great deal. They have walled the two passes known as Tarsk and Magadon. And they expect aid from the north, though without great confidence. The leader, as you expected, is Ananais, though it is the woman Rayvan who binds them together.'

'Where is she?' asked the emperor.

'Back in the mountains.'

'Can you get to her?'

'Not from the Void. She is protected.'

'They cannot protect all her friends?' suggested Ceska.

'No, my lord,' agreed Maymon.

'Then soul-take someone close to her. I want the woman dead.'

'Yes, my lord. But first we must break through the Void wall of The Thirty.'

'What of Tenaka Khan?' snapped Ceska.

'He escaped to the north. His grandfather, Jongir, died two months ago and there is civil war brewing.'

'Send a message to the Delnoch commander, ordering him to watch closely for any Nadir army.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Leave me now,' said the emperor. 'All except Darik.'

The captains gratefully obeyed, walking out into the night. Around the tent stood fifty Joinings, the largest and most ferocious beasts in Ceska's army. The captains did not look at them as they passed.

Inside the tent Ceska sat silently for several minutes.

'They all hate me,' he said. 'Small men with small minds. What are they without me?'

'They are nothing, sire,' said Darik.

'Exactly. And what of you, general?'

'Sire, you can read men like an open book. You can see into their hearts. I am loyal, but the day you doubt me I shall take my life the instant you order it.'

'You are the only loyal man in the empire. I want them all dead. I want Skoda to be a charnel-house that will be remembered for eternity.'

'It shall be as you command, sire. They cannot hold against us.'

'The Spirit of Chaos rides with my forces, Darik. But it needs blood. Much blood. Oceans of blood! It is never satisfied.'

Ceska's eyes took on a haunted look and he lapsed into silence. Darik sat very still. The fact that his emperor was mad worried him not at all, but Ceska's deterioration was another matter. Darik was a strange man. Almost totally single-minded, he cared only for war and strategy and what he had told the emperor was the literal truth. When the day came — as come it must — that Ceska's madness turned on him, he would kill himself. For life would have nothing more to offer. Darik had never loved a single human being, nor been entranced by things of beauty. He cared not for paintings, poetry, literature, mountains nor storm-tossed seas.