In the Realm of the Wolf (33 page)

Wrapped in his cloak, his head resting on his saddle, Waylander lay on the rug, listening to the night winds howling outside the tent. On the far side of the brazier Kasai was sleeping, his two wives on either side of him and his children close by. Waylander was tired, but sleep would not come. Rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the smoke drifting through the hole in
the tent roof, watching the wind swirl it away. He could see three stars high in the night sky. He closed his eyes.

And remembered the day he had fought to protect the Armor of Bronze. The Nadir had come for him, but those men he had slain. Then the last of the wolf-beasts had stalked him. Two bolts through the brain had finally ended the terror. Wounded and alone, he had dragged himself from the cave only to face the knights of the Brotherhood. Those he could not defeat, but Durmast the giant, treacherous Durmast, had arrived to save him, giving his life for a man he had planned to betray.

Waylander sighed. So many dead: Durmast, Gellan, Danyal, Krylla … And always the wars—conquest and battle, defeat and despair. Where does it end? he thought. With the grave? Or do the battles go on?

Kasai was snoring. Waylander heard him grunt as one of his wives nudged him. Opening his eyes, he gazed across the tent. The brazier was burning low, a soft red glow filling the interior. Kasai had a family. He had made a gift to the future. He was loved.

Waylander turned to his side, facing away from the Nadir leader. Once more he tried for sleep, but this time he saw Dardalion tied to the tree, his flesh sliced and bleeding, the men around him laughing and mocking.

That was the day Waylander’s world had changed. He had rescued the priest, then had been drawn into the eternal battle, light against dark, harmony against chaos. And he had met Danyal. He groaned and rolled again, his body weary, his muscles aching.

Stop dwelling on the past, he told himself. Think about tomorrow. Just tomorrow. He would find a way into the Mountains of the Moon. He would stand beside Miriel and Angel and do that which he did best. He would fight.

He would kill.

Sleep took him by surprise, and his soul drifted into darkness.

The walls were clammy, the corridor dark and claustrophobic. Waylander blinked and tried to remember how he had come
here. It was so hard to concentrate. Was he looking for something? Someone?

There were no doors or windows, just this endless tunnel. Cold water was soaking through his boots as he waded on.

I am lost, he thought.

There was no source of light, yet he could see.

Stairs. Must look for stairs. Fear touched him, but he suppressed it ruthlessly. Stay calm! Think! He moved on. Something white on the far wall caught his eye. There was an alcove there. Splashing across the streaming water, he saw a skeleton, rusty chains holding it to the wall. The ligaments and tendons had not yet rotted, and the thing was intact except for the left leg, which had parted at the knee. Something moved within the rib cage, and Waylander saw that two rats had made a nest there.

“Welcome,” said a voice. Waylander stepped back in shock. The head was no longer a skull but a handsome face framed in golden hair. It smiled at him. Waylander’s heart was beating wildly, and he reached for his crossbow. Only then did he realize he was weaponless. “Welcome to my home,” said the handsome head.

“I am dreaming!”

“Perhaps,” agreed the head. A rat pushed its way through the gaping rib cage and sprang to a nearby shelf of stone.

“Where is this place?” asked Waylander.

The head laughed, the sound echoing away into the tunnel. “Well, let us think … Does it look to you like paradise?”

“No.”

“Then it must be somewhere else. But one mustn’t complain, must one? It is pleasant to have a visitor after so long. The rats are company, of course, but their conversation is rather limited.”

“How do I get out of here?”

The head smiled, and Waylander saw the pale eyes widen, a gleam of triumph showing there. Waylander spun. A sword lunged for his throat. Swaying aside, he slammed his fist into a face out of a nightmare. His assailant fell back into the water but rose swiftly. He looked like a man, save that his skin was scaled, his eyes huge and set, like a fish, on either side of his head. He had no nose, merely slits in the skin of his face, and
his mouth was shaped like an inverted
V,
lipless and rimmed with fangs.

The creature leapt forward. Waylander reached out, his fingers curling around one of the skeleton’s ribs and snapping it clear. The sword slashed down. Waylander sidestepped the blow and rammed the broken rib into the creature’s chest. Dropping the sword, it let out a terrible howl and disappeared.

Waylander scooped up the sword and swung back to the skeleton. The handsome head was no longer visible. The rotting skull sagged against the vertebrae and toppled into the murky water.

Sword in hand, Waylander moved on, every sense alert.

The tunnel widened, and he saw an arch of stone and a path leading to a stairwell. An old man was sitting on the first stair. His robes were old and covered in mildew and mold. In his hands was a sphere of transparent crystal, a white light shining at the center.

Waylander approached him.

“This is your soul,” said the old man, holding up the crystal. “If I drop it, or break it, or crush it, you will never leave here. You will wander these tunnels for eternity. Go back the way you have come.”

“I wish to climb those stairs, old man. Step aside.”

“One step toward me and your soul perishes!” warned the old man, holding the crystal high. Waylander sprang forward, his sword smashing through the crystal, sending glittering shards to the water. The old man fell back. “How did you know?” he moaned.

“My soul is my own,” answered Waylander. The old man vanished.

And the stairs beckoned.

Waylander edged forward. The stairwell walls shimmered with a faintly green light, and the stairs glistened as if oiled. He took a long deep breath, then ventured onto the first step and then the second. Arms swept out from the walls, hooked fingers and talons reaching for him. The sword slashed down, hacking through a scaled wrist. Fingers grabbed at his black leather tunic. Tearing himself free, he forced his way up the stairwell, the sword blade hacking a path through the writhing, questing limbs.

At the top of the stairs was a square landing. There were two doors, one edged with gold and partly open, the other guarded by a huge three-headed serpent whose coils rose up around the frame. The partly open door showed a shaft of sunlight, warm and welcoming, beckoning the man. Waylander ignored it, his eyes fixed to the serpent. Its mouths were cavernous, each showing twin fangs more than a foot long. Venom dripped from them, splashing to the stone of the landing, bubbling and hissing.

A figure in a robe of light appeared at the partly open door. “Come this way. Quickly!” said the figure, a friendly-faced man with white hair and kindly blue eyes. “Come to the light!” Waylander moved toward him as if to comply, but once close enough, he reached out, pulling the man forward by his robes and then hurling him at the serpent. Two of the heads darted forward, the first closing on the man’s shoulder, the second sinking its fangs into his leg. The victim’s screams filled the air.

As Waylander leapt past the struggling man, the third head lunged down. Waylander’s sword smote it in the eye. Black blood bubbled from the wound, and the head withdrew. Throwing his shoulder against the door, Waylander felt the wood give way, and he fell into a wide hall. Rolling to his feet, he saw a man waiting for him, sword in hand.

It was Morak.

“No dying dog to save you now!” said the dead assassin.

“I don’t need help from the likes of you,” Waylander told him. “You were nothing then. You are less than nothing now.”

Morak’s face twisted, and he ran to the attack. Waylander sidestepped, parried the lunge, and sent a riposte that almost tore Morak’s head from his neck. The assassin staggered and then righted himself, his head hanging at an obscene angle.

“How do you kill a dead man?” he mocked. Morak attacked again. Waylander parried and once more chopped at the gashed neck. The head fell to the floor, but the body continued its assault. Waylander blocked two thrusts, slashing his blade into the already open rib cage. It did not even slow the headless opponent. Laughter came from the air. “Are you beginning to know fear?” Morak’s voice echoed in the hall, the air filled with screaming obscenities.

Ducking under a wild cut, Waylander ran to the head, lifting
it by the hair. Spinning around, he hurled it toward the doorway. It bounced and rolled through the gap. A serpent lunged, its great mouth snapping shut. The screams stopped instantly.

The headless body collapsed.

Waylander whirled, awaiting the next attack.

“How did you know which door to take?” asked another voice. Waylander searched for the source of the sound but could see no one.

“It was not difficult,” he answered, holding his blade at the ready.

“Yes, I can see that. The sunlight and the white robe were a little too obvious. I won’t make that mistake again. I must say Morak was a disappointment. He gave you a much greater battle while alive.”

“He had more to fight for,” said Waylander. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

“Of course. How impolite of me.” A figure shimmered into being on the far side of the hall, a tall man wearing purple robes. His hair was waxed flat to his skull except for two braided sideburns that hung to his slender shoulders. “I am Zhu Chao.”

“I have heard the name.”

“Of course you have. Now, let us see what we can conjure for our pleasure. Something from your past, perhaps?” Zhu Chao extended his arm, pointing at a spot midway into the hall. Black smoke swirled there, forming into a beast more than eight feet high. It had the head of a wolf and the body of a giant man. “Such a shame you do not have your little bow with you,” said Zhu Chao.

Waylander backed away as the beast advanced, its blood-red eyes focused on its prey. A silver arrow lanced across the hall, spearing into the creature’s neck. A second followed it, piercing the great chest. The beast slumped to its knees, then fell headfirst to the flagstones.

Waylander spun. Miriel, bow in hand, with Angel beside her, was standing by the doorway. Angel ran forward.

“Get back!” ordered Waylander, sword raised.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” asked Angel.

“Nothing is as it seems in this place,” Waylander told him.
“And I’ll not be fooled by a demon because he looks like a friend.”

Miriel advanced. “Judge by actions, Father,” she said.

Waylander’s crossbow materialized in his hand, a full bolt quiver appearing at his belt. “How did you come here?” he asked, still wary.

“Kesa Khan sent us. Now we must get out of this place.”

Loading his crossbow, Waylander swung back to where Zhu Chao had been standing.

But the wizard had gone.

There were many doors on both sides of the hall. Miriel ran toward the nearest, but Waylander called her back.

“What is this place?” he asked her.

“It exists in the Void. The castle was created by Zhu Chao as a trap for you. We must get out, move beyond his power.” Once more she started for the door, but he grabbed her arm, his dark eyes showing his anger.

“Stop and think!” he snapped. “This is
his
creation, so none of the doorways will lead to freedom. Beyond them is only more peril.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Angel. “Do we just wait here?”

“Exactly. His powers are not inexhaustible. We stand and fight. Whatever comes, we kill.”

“No,” insisted Miriel. “You have no conception of what exists in the Void. Demons, monsters, spirits—creatures of colossal evil. Kesa Khan warned me about them.”

“If Zhu Chao had the power to conjure such creatures, I would already be dead,” Waylander said softly. “But whatever surprises he has for us are waiting beyond those doors. There or here. Those are our only choices. And here we have space. Tell me of the Void,” he ordered Miriel.

“It is a place of spirit,” she told him, “of wandering. It is the great emptiness between what was and what is.”

“Nothing is real here?”

“Real and yet not real. Yes.”

“This crossbow is not ebony and steel?”

“No. It is a thing of spirit—
your
spirit. An extension of your will.”

“Then I need not load it?”

“I … don’t know.”

Waylander leveled the bow and loosed the triggers. The bolts flashed across the hall, hammering into a black door. He gazed down at the weapon, the strings hanging slack. Then he raised it again. Instantly two bolts slashed through the air. “Good,” he said. “Now let them come. And I will have my knives.” A baldric appeared on his chest, three knives in sheaths hanging from it. His chain-mail shoulder guard materialized, not black but made of shining silver. “What of you, Angel?” he asked, with a wide grin. “What do you desire?”

The gladiator smiled. “Two golden swords and armor encrusted with gems.”

“You shall have them!”

A golden helm appeared, a white-crested plume arcing back from brow to nape of neck, and a breastplate and greaves, glittering with rubies and diamonds. Two scabbarded swords shimmered into place at his side.

All the doors in the hall swept open, and a host of shadow shapes swarmed toward the waiting warriors.

“I’ll have light also!” yelled Waylander. The ceiling disappeared, and sunlight filled the hall, spearing through the dark horde, which vanished like mist in a morning breeze.

Then a black cloud formed above them, obliterating the light, and a cold voice hissed from all around them. “You learn swiftly, Waylander, but you do not have the skill to oppose me.”