“Damn you, Rek, snap out of it,” he muttered, knowing the man would never hear him. Horeb turned away, cursed, then removed his leather apron and grasped a half-empty jug of ale and a tankard. As an afterthought he opened a small cupboard and removed a bottle of port he had been saving for Nessa’s wedding.
“A problem shared is a problem doubled,” he said, squeezing into the seat opposite Rek.
“A friend in need is a friend to be avoided,” Rek countered, accepting the proffered bottle and refilling his glass. “I knew a general once,” he said, staring at the wine, twirling the glass slowly with his long fingers. “Never lost a battle. Never won one, either.”
“How so?” asked Horeb.
“You know the answer. I’ve told you before.”
“I have a bad memory. Anyway, I like to listen to you tell stories. How could he never lose and never win?”
“He surrendered whenever threatened,” said Rek. “Clever, eh?”
“How come men followed him if he never won?”
“Because he never lost. Neither did they.”
“Would you have followed him?” asked Horeb.
“I don’t follow anyone anymore. Least of all generals.” Rek turned his head, listening to the interweaving chatter. He closed his eyes, concentrating. “Listen to them,” he said softly. “Listen to their talk of glory.”
“They don’t know any better, Rek, my friend. They haven’t seen it, tasted it. Crows like a black cloud over a battlefield feasting on dead men’s eyes, foxes jerking at severed tendons, worms …”
“Stop it, damn you … I don’t need reminding. Well, I’m damned if I’ll go. When’s Nessa getting married?”
“In three days,” answered Horeb. “He’s a good boy; he’ll look after her. Keeps baking her cakes. She’ll be like a tub before long.”
“One way or another,” said Rek with a wink.
“Indeed, yes,” answered Horeb, grinning broadly. The men sat in their own silence, allowing the noise to wash over them, each drinking and thinking, secure within their circle of two. After a while Rek leaned forward.
“The first attack will be at Dros Delnoch,” he said. “Do you know they’ve only ten thousand men there?”
“I heard it was less than that. Abalayn’s been cutting back on the regulars and concentrating on militia. Still, there’re six high walls and a strong keep. And Delnar’s no fool—he was at the Battle of Skeln.”
“Really?” said Rek. “I heard that was one man against ten thousand, hurling mountains on the foe.”
“The saga of Druss the Legend,” said Horeb, deepening his voice. “The tale of a giant whose eyes were death and whose ax was terror. Gather around, children, and keep from the shadows lest evil lurks as I tell my tale.”
“You bastard!” said Rek. “That used to terrify me. You knew him, didn’t you—the Legend, I mean?”
“A long time ago. They say he’s dead. If not, he must be over sixty. We were in three campaigns together, but I only spoke to him twice. I saw him in action once, though.”
“Was he good?” asked Rek.
“Awesome. It was just before Skeln and the defeat of the Immortals. Just a skirmish, really. Yes, he was very good.”
“You’re not terribly strong on detail, Horeb.”
“You want me to sound like the rest of these fools, jabbering about war and death and slaying?”
“No,” said Rek,
draining his wine. “No, I don’t. You know me, don’t you?”
“Enough to like you. Regardless.”
“Regardless of what?”
“Regardless of the fact that you don’t like yourself.”
“On the contrary,” said Rek, pouring a fresh glass, “I like myself well enough. It’s just that I know myself better than most people.”
“You know, Rek, sometimes I think you ask too much of yourself.”
“No. No, I ask very little. I know my weaknesses.”
“It’s a funny thing about weakness,” said Horeb. “Most people will tell you they know their weaknesses. When asked, they tell you, ‘Well, for one thing I’m overgenerous.’ Come on, then; list yours if you must. That’s what innkeepers are for.”
“Well, for one thing I’m overgenerous, especially to innkeepers.”
Horeb shook his head, smiled, and lapsed into silence.
Too intelligent to be a hero, too frightened to be a coward, he thought. He watched his friend empty his glass, lift it to his face, and peer at his own fragmented image. For a moment Horeb thought he would smash it, such had been the anger on Rek’s flushed face.
Then the younger man gently returned the goblet to the wooden table.
“I’m not a fool,” he said softly. He stiffened as he realized he had spoken aloud. “Damn!” he said. “The drink finally got to me.”
“Let me give you a hand to your room,” offered Horeb.
“Is there a candle lit?” asked Rek, swaying in his seat.
“Of course.”
“You won’t let it go out on me, will you? Not keen on the dark. Not frightened, you understand. Just don’t like it.”
“I won’t let it go out, Rek. Trust me.”
“I trust you. I rescued you, didn’t I? Remember?”
“I remember. Give me your arm. I’ll guide you to the stairs. This way. That’s good. One foot in front of the other. Good!”
“I didn’t hesitate. Straight in with my sword raised, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“No, I didn’t. I stood for two minutes, shaking. And you got cut.”
“But you still came in, Rek. Don’t you see? It didn’t matter about the cut—you still rescued me.”
“It matters to me. Is there a candle in my room?”
