In the Realm of the Wolf (19 page)

“Of course they can. You should see my Shia—knife, sword, hand ax. But it is not natural. War is for men, for honor and glory.”

“And death,” she pointed out.

“Of course death. That is why women must be protected. Many babies must be born to replace the dead warriors.”

“It might be better just to stop the wars.”

“Pah! It is always useless to talk to women. They have no understanding.”

Miriel took a deep breath but refrained from further argument. Leaving the Nadir to his endless breakfast, she walked to her room and began to pack.

8

H
EWLA EASED HER
frame up from the wicker chair and winced as pain flared in her arthritic hip. The fire was dying down, and she slowly bent to lift a log onto the glowing coals. There had been a time when her fires had needed no fuel, when she had not been forced to walk the forest gathering twigs and sticks.

“Curse you, Zhu Chao,” she whispered, but the words only made her more angry, for once such a curse would have been accompanied by the beating of demon wings and the harsh raucous cries of the Vanshii as they flew to their victim.

How could you have been so stupid? she asked herself.

I was lonely.

Yes, but now you are still lonely, and the grimoires are gone.

She shivered and added another thick stick to the fire, which hungrily devoured it. It was small consolation that the Books of Spellfire would be virtually useless to Zhu Chao. For the spells contained in them had given Hewla life long after her skin should have turned to dust, had held at bay the mortal pain of her inflamed joints. The six books of Moray Sen. Priceless. She remembered the day she had shown them to him, opening the secret compartment behind the firestone. She had believed in him then, the young Chiatze, loved him. She shuddered. Old fool.

He had taken the grimoires she had schemed for, killed for, sold her soul for.

Now the Void beckoned.

Waylander will kill him, she thought with grim relish.

The room was becoming warmer, and Hewla was at last feeling some comfort from the heat. But then an icy blast of freezing air touched her back. The old woman turned. The far
wall was shimmering, and a cold, cold wind was blowing through it, scattering scrolls and papers. A clay goblet on the table trembled and fell, rolling to the floor and shattering. The wind grew stronger. Hewla’s shawl flew back, falling across the fire, and the old woman stumbled against the power of the demon wind.

A dark shape appeared by the wall, silhouetted against icy flames.

Hewla’s hand came up, and a bright light blazed from her fingers, surrounding the demon. The wind died down, but she felt the creature’s elemental power pushing back against the light. A taloned hand clawed through. Flames burst around it, and it withdrew.

A flickering figure appeared to her left, and she saw Zhu Chao’s image forming.

“I have brought an old friend to see you, Hewla,” he said.

“Rot in hell,” she hissed.

He laughed at her. “I see you retain some vestiges of power. Tell me, hag. How long do you think you can hold him from you?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I cannot master the first of the five spells. Something is missing from the grimoires. Tell me and you shall live.”

Once again the taloned hand tore through the light. Flames seared it, but not as powerfully as before. Fear swelled in Hewla’s heart, and had she believed Zhu Chao’s promise, she might have told him. But she did not.

“What is missing is something you will never find—courage!” she said. “You will grow older, your powers fading. And when you die, your soul will be carried screaming to the Void.”

“You foolish old crone,” he whispered. “All the books speak of the Mountains of the Moon. The answers lie there. I shall find them.”

Talons ripped at the light, and it parted like a torn curtain. The dark shape loomed in the room. As swiftly as she could, Hewla drew the small curved dagger from the sheath at her waist.

“I will wait for you in the Void,” she promised.

Holding the dagger blade beneath her left breast, she plunged it home.

Senta sat quietly on the wall of the well, watching Waylander and Miriel some distance away. The man had his hand on the girl’s shoulder. Her head was bowed. Senta did not need to guess the subject of their conversation. He had heard Waylander telling Angel about the death of Miriel’s sister.

Senta looked away. His broken nose was sending shafts of pain behind his eyes, and he felt sick. In his four years in the arena he had not felt pain like this. Minor cuts and once a twisted ankle were all the swordsman had suffered. But then, those fights had been governed by rules. With a man like Waylander there were no rules, only survival.

Despite his pain, Senta felt relieved. He had no doubt that he would have killed the older man in a duel, though if he had, there still would have been Angel to face, and it would have saddened him to slay the old gladiator. But more than that, it would have wrecked any chance with Miriel.

Miriel
…

His first sight of her had shocked him, and he still did not know why. The noblewoman Gilaray had a more beautiful face. Nexiar was infinitely more shapely. Suri’s golden hair and flashing eyes were far more provocative. Yet there was something about this mountain girl that had fired his senses. But what?

And why marriage? He could hardly believe he had made the offer. How would she take to life in the city? He focused on her once more, picturing her in a gown of silver satin, pearls laced through her dark hair. And he chuckled.

“What is amusing you?” asked Angel, strolling to where he sat.

“I was thinking of Miriel at the lord protector’s ball, in a flowing dress and with her knives strapped to her forearms.”

“She’s too good for the likes of you, Senta. Far too good.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. Would you sooner see her standing behind a plow, old before her time, her breasts flat, like two hanged men?”

“No,” admitted Angel, “but I’d like to see her with a man
who loved her. She’s not like Nexiar or any of the others. She’s like a colt—fast, sleek, unbroken.”

Senta nodded. “I think you are right.” He glanced up at the gladiator. “How very perceptive of you, my friend. You do surprise me.”

“I surprise myself sometimes. Like asking Waylander not to kill you. I’m regretting it already.”

“No, you’re not,” Senta said with an easy smile.

Angel grunted a short obscenity and sat beside the swordsman. “Why did you have to talk of marriage?”

“You think I’d have been better advised to suggest rutting with her under a bush?”

“It would have been more honest.”

“I don’t think it would,” Senta answered softly. He became aware of Angel staring at him and felt himself blushing.

“Well, well,” said Angel. “That I should live to see the great Senta smitten. What would they say in Drenan?”

Senta grinned. “They’d say nothing. The entire city would be swept away under an ocean of tears.”

“I thought you were going to marry Nexiar. Or was it Suri?”

“Beautiful girls,” agreed Senta.

“Nexiar would have killed you. She damn near did for me.”

“I heard the two of you were close once. Is it true that she was so repulsed by your ugliness that, when in bed, she insisted you wear your helmet?”

Angel laughed. “Close. She had a velvet mask made for me.”

“Ah, but I like you, Angel. Always did. Why did you ask him to spare me?”

“Why didn’t you kill him when he approached you?” countered Angel.

Senta shrugged. “My great-grandfather was a congenital idiot. My father was convinced I took after him. I think he was right.”

“Answer the question, damn you!”

“He had no weapon in his hand. I have never killed an unarmed man. It’s not in me. Does that satisfy you?”

“Aye, it does,” admitted Angel. His head came up, nostrils flaring. Without a word he strode back to the cabin, emerging moments later with his sword strapped to his waist. The sound
of walking horses came to Senta, and he loosened his sabers in their scabbards but remained where he was at the well. Belash came into sight, stepping from the cabin doorway, knife in his right hand, whetstone in his left. Waylander said something to Miriel, and she vanished into the cabin. Then the black-garbed warrior lifted his double crossbow from the hook on his belt, swiftly drawing back the strings and notching two bolts into place.

The first of the horsemen came into view. He wore a full-faced helm of gleaming black metal, a black breastplate, and a bloodred cloak. Behind him came seven identical warriors, each riding a black gelding, none less than sixteen hands high. Senta stood and strolled to where Waylander and the others were standing.

The horsemen reined in before the cabin, the horses forming a semicircle around the waiting men. No one spoke, and Senta felt his skin crawl as he scanned the black knights. Only their eyes could be seen through thin rectangular slits in the black helms. The expressions were all the same: cold, expectant, confident.

Finally one of them spoke. Senta could not tell which one, for the voice was muffled by the helm.

“Which of you is the Wolfshead Dakeyras?”

“I am,” replied Waylander addressing the rider directly before him.

“The master has sentenced you to death. There is no appeal.”

The knight reached a black gauntleted hand to his sword hilt, drawing the blade slowly. Waylander started to lift the crossbow, but his hand froze, the weapon still pointing at the ground. Senta looked at him, surprised, and saw the muscles of his jaw clench, his face redden with effort.

Senta drew the first of his sabers and prepared to attack the horsemen, but even as the blade came clear, he saw one of the horsemen glance toward him, felt the man’s cold stare touch him like icy water. Senta’s limbs froze, a terrible pressure bearing down on him. The saber sagged in his hand.

The black knights dismounted, and Senta heard the whispering of steel swords being drawn from scabbards. Something
bounced at his feet, rolling past him. It was the whetstone Belash had been carrying.

He struggled to move, but his arms felt as if they were made of stone.

And he saw a black sword rising toward his throat.

Inside the cabin Miriel lifted Kreeg’s crossbow from the wall, flicking open the winding arms and swiftly rotating them, drawing the string back to the bronze notch. Selecting a bolt, she pressed it home and swung back toward the door.

A tall knight stepped into the doorway, blocking the light. For a moment only she froze. Then the bow came up.

“No,” whispered a sibilant voice in her mind.

A terrible lethargy flowed into her limbs, and she felt as if a stream of warm, dark water were seeping through the corridors of her mind, drawing out her soul, emptying her memories. It was almost welcome, a cessation of fear and concern, a longing for the emptiness of death. Then a bright light flared deep within her thoughts, holding back the black tidal wave of warm despair. And she saw, silhouetted against the light, the silver warrior who had rescued her as a child.

“Fight them!” he ordered. “Fight them, Miriel! I have opened the doorways to your talent. Seek it! And live!”

She blinked, and tried to aim the crossbow, but it was so heavy, so terribly heavy…

The black knight walked farther into the room. “Give me the weapon,” he said, his voice muffled by the helm. “And I will give you joys you have not yet even dreamed of.” As he approached, Miriel saw Waylander on his knees in the dust of the clearing, a black-bladed sword raised above his head.

“
No!
” she shouted. The crossbow tilted to the right. She squeezed the bronze trigger. The bolt slashed through the air, plunging into the black helm and disappearing up to the flights. The black knight toppled forward.

Outside, Waylander, suddenly free of the spell, threw himself to the left as the sword hissed down. Hitting the ground on his shoulder, he rolled and let fly the first of his bolts. It took the swordsman under the right armpit, cleaving his lungs.