In the Realm of the Wolf (2 page)

“You know what I mean,” snapped Angel.

“I know—I just don’t happen to agree with you. Here, enjoy a little quality wine.”

Angel shook his head. “One drink is all I need.”

“And you never finish that. Why do you come here? You hate people. You don’t talk to them, and you don’t like crowds.”

“I like to listen.”

“What can you hear in a tavern, save drunkards and loudmouths? There is little philosophy spoken here that I’ve ever heard.”

Angel shrugged. “Life. Rumors. I don’t know.”

Balka leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table. “You miss it, don’t you? The fights, the glory, the cheers.”

“Not a bit,” responded the other.

“Come on, this is Balka you’re talking to. I saw you the day
you beat Barsellis. He cut you bad, but you won. I saw your face as you raised your sword to Karnak. You were exultant.”

“That was then. I don’t miss it. I don’t long for it.” Angel sighed. “But I remember the day right enough. Good fighter was Barsellis, tall, proud, fast. But they dragged his body across the arena. You remember that? Facedown he was, and his chin made a long, bloody groove in the sand. Could have been me.”

Balka nodded solemnly. “But it wasn’t. You retired undefeated, and you never went back. That’s unusual. They all come back. Did you see Caplyn last week? What an embarrassment. He used to be so deadly. He looked like an old man.”

“A dead old man,” grunted Angel. “A dead old fool.”

“You could still take them all, Angel. And earn a fortune.”

Angel swore, and his face darkened. “I’d bet that’s what they told Caplyn.” He sighed. “It was better when we fought hand to hand, no weapons. Now the crowd just wants to see blood and death. Let’s talk about something else.”

“What? Politics? Religion?”

“Anything. Just make it interesting.”

“Karnak’s son was sentenced this morning: one year in exile in Lentria. A man is murdered, his wife falls to her death, and the killer is exiled for a year to a palace by the coast. There’s justice for you.”

“At least Karnak put the boy on trial,” said Angel. “The sentence could have been worse. And don’t forget, the murdered man’s father pleaded for leniency. Quite a moving speech, I understand—all about high spirits and accidents and forgiveness.”

“Fancy that,” Balka observed dryly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, Angel! Six men—all nobles—all drunk, snatch a young married woman and try to rape her. When her husband attempts to rescue her, he is cut down. The woman runs and falls over a cliff edge. High spirits? And as for the murdered man’s father, I understand Karnak was so moved by his pleas that he sent a personal gift of two thousand Raq to the man’s village and a huge supply of grain for the winter.”

“Well, there you are,” said Angel. “He’s a good man.”

“I don’t believe you sometimes, my friend. Don’t you think
it odd that the father should suddenly make that plea? Gods, man, he was coerced into it. People who criticize Karnak tend to have
accidents.
”

“I don’t believe those stories. Karnak’s a hero. He and Egel saved this land.”

“Yes, and look what happened to Egel.”

“I think I’ve had enough of politics,” snapped Angel, “and I don’t want to talk about religion. What else is happening?”

Balka sat silently for a moment, then he grinned. “Oh, yes, there’s a rumor that a huge sum has been offered for the Guild to hunt down Waylander.”

“For what purpose?” Angel asked, clearly astonished.

Balka shrugged. “I don’t know. But I heard it from Symius, and his brother is the clerk at the Guild. Five thousand Raq for the Guild itself and a further ten thousand to the man who kills him.”

“Who ordered the hunt?”

“No one knows, but they’ve offered large rewards for any information on Waylander.”

Angel laughed and shook his head. “It won’t be easy. No one has seen Waylander in … what … ten years? He could be dead already.”

“Someone obviously doesn’t think so.”

“It’s madness and a waste of money and life.”

“The Guild is calling in their best men,” offered Balka. “They’ll find him.”

“They’ll wish they hadn’t,” Angel said softly.

1

M
IRIEL HAD BEEN
running for slightly more than an hour. In that time she had covered around nine miles from the cabin in the high pasture, down to the stream path, through the valley and the pine woods, up across the crest of Ax Ridge, and back along the old deer trail.

She was tiring, heartbeat rising, lungs battling to supply oxygen to her weary muscles. But still she pushed on, determined to reach the cabin before the sun climbed to its noon high.

The slope was slippery from the previous night’s rain, and she stumbled twice, the leather knife scabbard at her waist digging into her bare thigh. A touch of anger spurred her on. Without the long hunting knife and the throwing blade strapped to her left wrist she could have made better time. But Father’s word was law, and Miriel had not left the cabin until her weapons had been in place.

“There is no one here but us,” she had argued, not for the first time.

“Expect the best, prepare for the worst,” was all he had said.

And so she ran with the heavy scabbard slapping against her thigh and the hilt of the throwing blade chafing the skin of her forearm.

Coming to a bend in the trail, she leapt over the fallen log, landing lightly and cutting left toward the last rise, her long legs increasing their pace, her bare feet digging into the soft earth. Her slim calves were burning, her lungs hot. But she was exultant, for the sun was at least twenty minutes from its noon high and she was but three minutes from the cabin.

A shadow moved to her left, talons and teeth flashing toward her. Instantly Miriel threw herself forward, hitting the ground
on her right side and rolling to her feet. The lioness, confused at having missed her victim with the first leap, crouched down, ears flat to her skull, tawny eyes focusing on the tall young woman.

Miriel’s mind was racing.
Action and reaction. Take control!

Her hunting knife slid into her hand, and she shouted at the top of her voice. The lioness, shocked by the sound, backed away. Miriel’s throat was dry, her heart hammering, but her hand was steady on the blade. She shouted once more and jumped toward the beast. Unnerved by the suddenness of the move, the creature slunk back several more paces. Miriel licked her lips. It should have run by now. Fear rose, but she swallowed it down.

Fear is like fire in your belly. Controlled, it warms you and keeps you alive. Unleashed, it burns and destroys you.

Her hazel eyes remained locked to the tawny gaze of the lioness, and she noted the beast’s ragged condition and the deep angry scar on its right foreleg. No longer fast, it could not catch the swift deer, and it was starving. It would not—could not—back away from this fight.

Miriel thought of everything Father had told her about lions:
Ignore the head—the bone is too thick for an arrow to penetrate. Send your shaft in behind the front leg, up and into the lung.
But he had said nothing about fighting such a beast when armed with only a knife.

The sun slid from behind an autumn cloud, and light shone from the knife blade. Instantly Miriel angled the blade, directing the gleam into the eyes of the lioness. The great head twisted, the eyes blinking against the harsh glare. Miriel shouted again.

But instead of fleeing, the lioness suddenly charged, leaping high toward the girl.

For an instant only Miriel froze. Then the knife swept up. A black crossbow bolt punched into the creature’s neck just behind the ear, with a second slicing into its side. The weight of the lioness struck Miriel, hurling her back, but the hunting knife plunged into the beast’s belly.

Miriel lay very still, the lioness on top of her, its breath foul on her face. But the talons did not rake her, or the fangs close on her. With a coughing grunt the lioness died. Miriel
closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and eased herself from beneath the body. Her legs felt weak, and she sat on the trail, her hands trembling.

A tall man, carrying a small double crossbow of black metal, emerged from the undergrowth and crouched down beside her. “You did well,” he said, his voice deep.

She looked up into his dark eyes and forced a smile. “It would have killed me.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But your blade reached its heart.”

Exhaustion flowed over her like a warm blanket, and she lay back, breathing slowly and deeply. Once she would have sensed the lioness long before any danger threatened, but that talent was lost to her now, as her mother and her sister were lost to her: Danyal killed in an accident five years earlier and Krylla wed and moved away the previous summer. Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she sat up. “You know,” she whispered, “I was really tired when I came to the last rise. I was breathing hard, and my limbs felt as if they were made of lead. But when the lioness leapt, all my weariness vanished.” She gazed up at her father.

He smiled and nodded. “I have experienced that many times. Strength can always be found in the heart of a fighter, and such a heart will rarely let you down.”

She glanced at the dead lioness. “Never shoot for the head—that’s what you told me,” she said, tapping the first bolt jutting from the creature’s neck.

He shrugged and grinned. “I missed.”

“That’s not very comforting. I thought you were perfect.”

“I’m getting old. Are you cut?”

“I don’t think so …” Swiftly she checked her arms and legs, as wounds from a lion’s claws or fangs often became poisonous. “No. I was very lucky.”

“Yes, you were,” he agreed. “But you made your luck by doing everything right. I’m proud of you.”

“Why were you here?”

“You needed me,” he answered. Rising smoothly to his feet, he reached out, drawing her upright. “Now skin the beast and quarter it. There’s nothing quite like lion meat.”

“I don’t think I want to eat it,” she said. “I think I’d like to forget about it.”

“Never forget,” he admonished her. “This was a victory, and you are stronger for it. I’ll see you later.” Retrieving his bolts, the tall man cleaned them of blood and returned them to the leather quiver at his side.

“You’re going to the waterfall?” she asked him softly.

“For a little while,” he answered, his voice distant. He turned back to her. “You think I spend too much time there?”

“No,” she told him sadly. “It’s not the time you sit there nor the effort you put into tending the grave. It’s you. She’s been … gone … now for five years. You should start living again. You need … more than this.”

He nodded, but she knew she had not reached him. He smiled and laid his hand on her shoulder. “One day you’ll find a love, and then we can talk on equal terms. I do not mean that to sound patronizing. You are bright and intelligent. You have courage and wit. But sometimes it is like trying to describe colors to a blind man. Love, as I hope you will find, has great power. Even death cannot destroy it. And I still love her.” Leaning forward, he drew her toward him, kissing her brow. “Now skin that beast. And I’ll see you at dusk.”

She watched him walk away, a tall man moving with grace and care, his black and silver hair drawn back into a tightly tied ponytail, his crossbow hanging from his belt.

And then he was gone, vanished into the shadows.

The waterfall was narrow, no more than six feet wide, flowing over white boulders in a glittering cascade to a leaf-shaped bowl thirty feet across and forty-five feet long. At its most southern point a second fall occurred, the stream surging on to join the river two miles to the south. Golden leaves swirled on the surface of the water, and with each breath of breeze more spiraled down from the trees.

Around the pool grew many flowers, most of them planted by the man who now knelt by the graveside. He glanced up at the sky. The sun was losing its power, the cold winds of autumn flowing over the mountains. Waylander sighed. A time of dying. He gazed at the golden leaves floating on the water and remembered sitting there with Danyal and the children on another autumn day ten lifetimes earlier.