In the Realm of the Wolf (12 page)

Dardalion’s voice whispered into his mind. “Take my hand, Ekodas.”

A light shone golden and warming, and Ekodas accepted the merging. The release was instant, and his spirit broke clear of the temple of his body, soaring up through the second temple of stone to float high in the night sky above the land of Drenai.

“Why is it so difficult for me?” he asked the abbot.

Dardalion, young again, his face unlined, reached out and touched his pupil’s shoulder. “Doubts are fears, my boy. And dreams of the flesh. Small guilts, meaningless but worrisome.”

“Where are we going, Father?”

“Follow and observe.” East they flew, across the glittering, star-dappled Ventrian Sea. A storm raged there, and far below a tiny trireme battled the elements, great waves washing over her flat decks. Ekodas saw a sailor swept overboard, watched him fall below the waves, saw the gleaming spark of his soul float up and vanish.

The land appeared dark below them, the mountains and plains of Ventria stretching to the east, while on the coast brightly lit towns and ports shone like jewels on a cloak of black. Dardalion flew down, down … The two priests hovered some hundred feet in the air, and Ekodas saw the scores of ships harbored there, heard the pounding of the armorers’ hammers in the town.

“The Ventrian battle fleet,” said Dardalion. “It will sail within the week. They will attack Purdol, Erekban, and Lentrum, landing armies to invade Drenan. War and devastation.”

He flew on, crossing the high mountains and swooping down over a city of marble, its houses laid out in a grid pattern of wide avenues and cluttered streets. There was a palace on the highest hill, surrounded by high walls manned by many sentries in gold-embossed armor of white and silver. Dardalion flew into the palace, through the walls and drapes of silk and velvet, coming at last to a bedchamber where a dark-bearded man lay sleeping. Above the man hovered his spirit, formless and vague, unaware and unknowing.

“We could stop the war now,” said Dardalion, a silver sword appearing in his hand. “I could slay this man’s soul. Then thousands of Drenai farmers and soldiers, women and children, would be safe.”

“No!” exclaimed Ekodas, swiftly moving between the abbot and the formless spirit of the Ventrian king.

“Did you think I would?” Dardalion asked sadly.

“I … I am sorry, Father. I saw the sword and …” His voice trailed away.

“I am no murderer, Ekodas. And I do not know the complete will of the Source. No man does. No man ever will, though there are many who claim such knowledge. Take my hand, my son.” The walls of the palace vanished, and with bewildering speed the two spirits crossed the sea once more, this time heading northeast. Colors flashed before Ekodas’ eyes. If not for the firm grip of Dardalion’s hand, he would have been lost in the swirling lights. Their speed slowed, and Ekodas blinked, trying to adjust his mind.

Below him was another city with more palaces of marble. A huge amphitheater to the west and a massive stadium for chariot races at the center marked it as Gulgothir, the capital of the Gothir empire.

“What are we here to see, Father?” asked Ekodas.

“Two men,” answered Dardalion. “We have crossed the gates of time to be here. The scene you are about to witness happened five days ago.”

Still holding to the young priest’s hand, Dardalion floated down over the high palace walls and into a narrow room behind the throne hall. The Gothir emperor was seated on a silk-covered divan. He was a young man, no more than twenty, with large protruding eyes and a receding chin that was partly hidden by a wispy beard. Before him, seated on a low stool, was a second man, dressed in long dark robes of shining silk embroidered with silver. His hair was dark and waxed flat to his skull, the sideburns unnaturally long and braided, hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were slanted beneath high flared brows; his mouth was a thin line.

“You say the empire is in danger, Zhu Chao,” spoke the emperor, his voice deep, resonant, and strong, belying the weakness of his appearance.

“It is, sire. Unless you take action, your descendants will be overthrown, your cities vanquished. I have read the omens. The Nadir wait only for the day of the Uniter. And he is coming from among the Wolfshead.”

“And how can I change this?”

“If wolves are killing one’s sheep, one kills the wolves.”

“You are talking of an entire tribe among the Nadir.”

“Indeed, sire. Eight hundred forty-four savages. They are not people as you and I understand the term. Their lives are meaningless, but their future sons could see an end to Gothir civilization.”

The emperor nodded. “It will take time to gather sufficient men for the task. As you know, the Ventrians are about to invade the lands of the Drenai, and I have plans of my own.”

“I understand that, sire. You will wish to reclaim the Sentran Plain as part of Gothir, which is only just and right, but that will take no more than ten thousand men. You have ten times that many under your command.”

“And I need them, wizard. There are always those who seek the overthrow of monarchs. I can spare you five thousand for this small task. In one month you will have the massacre you desire.”

“You misjudge me, sire,” put in Zhu Chao, bowing deeply and spreading his hands like a supplicant. “I am thinking only of the future good of Gothir.”

“Oh, I believe in the prophecy, wizard. I have had other sorcerers and several shamans telling me similar stories, though none named a single tribe. But you have other reasons for wanting the Wolves destroyed, or you would have traced the line of this Uniter back to one named man. Then the task would have been made so much more simple: one knife in the night. Never take me for a fool, Zhu Chao. You want them all dead for your own reasons.”

“You are all-wise, sire, and all-knowing,” whispered the wizard, falling to his knees and touching his forehead to the floor.

“No, I am not. And knowing that is my strength. But I will give you the deaths you desire. You have been a good servant to me and never played me false. And as you say, they are only Nadir. It will sharpen the troops, give a cutting edge to the
soldiers before the invasion of Drenan. I take it you will send your Brotherhood knights into the fray?”

“Of course, sire. They will be needed to combat the evil powers of Kesa Khan.”

The scene faded, and Ekodas felt again the warm prison of his body. He opened his eyes to find Dardalion staring at him. “Am I supposed to have learned something, Father Abbot? I saw only evil men, proud and ruthless. The world is full of such.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Dardalion. “And were we to spend our lives traveling the earth and slaying such men, there would still be more of them at the end of our journey than there were at the beginning.”

“But surely that is
my
argument, Lord Abbot,” said Ekodas, surprised.

“Exactly. That is what you must consider. I appreciate your argument and accept the premise on which it is made, yet I still believe in the cause of the Thirty. I still believe we must be a temple of swords. What I would like you to do, Ekodas, is to lead the debate tomorrow evening. I will present your arguments as if they were my own. You will deliver mine.”

“But … that makes no sense, Father. I do not even begin to understand your cause.”

“Do the best that you can. I will make this debate an open vote. The future of the Thirty will depend on the outcome. I will do my utmost to sway our brothers to your argument. You must do no less. If I win, then the swords and armor will be returned to the storerooms and we will continue as an order of prayer. If you win, we will await the guidance of the Source and ride to our destiny.”

“Why can I not argue my own beliefs?”

“You believe I will do them less than justice?”

“No, of course not, but …”

“Then it is settled.”

5

M
ORAK LISTENED
to the reports as the hunters came in, his irritation growing. Nowhere was there any sign of Waylander, and the man Dakeyras had proved to be a balding redhead with a face that looked as if it had seen a stampede of oxen from underneath.

I hate forests, thought Morak, sitting with his back to the trunk of a willow, his green cloak wrapped tightly around him. I hate the smell of mold, the cold winds, the mud and the slime. He glanced at Belash, sitting apart from the others, sharpening his knife with long sweeping strokes. The grating noise of the whetstone added to Morak’s ill humor.

“Well, somebody killed Kreeg,” he said at last. “Somebody put a knife or an arrow through his eye.” No one spoke. They had found the body the previous day, wedged in the reeds of the River Earis.

“Could have been robbers,” said Wardal, a tall, thin bowman from the Forest of Graven, far to the south.

“Robbers?” sneered Morak. “Hell’s teeth! I’ve had lice with more brains than you! If it was robbers, don’t you think a fighter like Kreeg would have had more wounds? Don’t you think there would have been a fight? Someone very skillful sent a missile through his eyeball. A man with rare talent is killed; that suggests to me he was slain by someone with
more
talent. Is my reasoning getting through to you?”

“You think it was Waylander,” muttered Wardal.

“A giant leap of the imagination. Many congratulations. The question is, Where in hell’s name is he?”

“Why should he be easy to find?” Belash asked suddenly. “He knows we are here.”

“And what mighty spark of logic leads you to that conclusion?”

“He killed Kreeg. He knows.”

Morak felt a chill breeze blowing and shivered. “Wardal, you and Tharic take the first watch.”

“What are we watching for?” inquired Tharic.

Morak closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Well,” he said at last, “you could be watching for enormous elephants that will trample all over our supplies. But were I you, I would be alert for a tall man, dressed in black, who is rather good at sending sharp objects through eyeballs.” At that moment a tall figure stepped from the undergrowth. Morak’s heart missed a beat, but then he recognized Baris. “The normal procedure is to shout ‘Hallo the camp,’ ” he observed. “You took your time.”

The blond forester settled down by the fire. “Kasyra is not a small place, but I found the whore Kreeg was living with. She told him about a man called Dakeyras who lives near here. I’ve got directions.”

“Wrong man,” said Morak. “Wardal and Tharic already met him. What else did you find?”

“Little of interest,” answered Baris, pulling the remains of a loaf of bread from the pouch at his side. “By the way, how long has Angel been a member of the Guild?”

“Angel? I’ve not heard that he is,” said Morak. “Why?”

“He was in Kasyra a week or so back. Tavern keeper recognized him. Senta is there, too. He said to tell you that when he finds your body, he’ll be sure to give it a fine burial.”

But Morak was not listening. He laughed and shook his head. “Wardal, have you ever been to the arena?”

“Aye. Saw Senta fight there. Beat a Vagrian called … called …”

“Never mind! Did you ever see Angel fight?”

“Oh, yes. Tough. Won some money on him once.”

“Would you remember his face at all?”

“Red hair, wasn’t it?” answered Wardal.

“Correct, numbskull. Red hair. And a face his mother would disown. I wonder if the tiniest thought is trying to make its way through that mass of bone that houses your brain. If it is, do share it with us.”

Wardal sniffed loudly. “The man at the cabin!”

“The man who said he was Dakeyras, yes,” said Morak. “It was the right cabin, just the wrong man. Tomorrow you can return there. Take Baris and Tharic. No, that might not be enough. Jonas and Seeris as well. Kill Angel and bring the girl here.”

“He’s a gladiator,” objected Jonas, a stout balding warrior with a forked beard.

“I didn’t say fight him,” whispered Morak. “I said kill him.”

“Wasn’t nothing about no gladiators,” persisted Jonas. “Tracking, you said. Find this Dakeyras. I’ve seen Angel fight as well. Don’t stop, does he? Stick him, cut him, hit him … still keeps going.”