In the Realm of the Wolf (9 page)

That was the day Angel had retired. He had fought a dull Vagrian whose name he could not recall. The man was tough, but had been slowed by a recent wound. Even so he had almost taken Angel, cutting him twice. After the battle Angel had sat in the arena surgery, the doctor stitching his wounds, while on the table opposite lay Sorrin’s bloody corpse. Beside it sat Senta, a bandage soaked in honey and wine being applied to a shallow cut in his shoulder.

“You trained him well,” said Senta. “He almost took me.”

“Not well enough,” answered Angel.

“I look forward to meeting the master.”

Angel had looked into the young man’s eager eyes, seeing the mocking expression on the handsome face, the smile that was almost a sneer. “It won’t happen, boy,” he had said, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. “I’m too old and slow. This is your day. Enjoy it.”

“You are leaving the arena?” whispered Senta, astonished.

“Yes. That was my last fight.”

The young man nodded, then cursed as the orderly tied the knot in the bandage on his shoulder. “You dolt!” snapped Senta.

“I’m sorry, sir!” said the man, moving back, his face twisted in fear.

Senta returned his gaze to Angel. “I think you are wise, old man, but for myself I am disappointed. You are a favorite with the crowds. I could have made my fortune by defeating you.”

Angel added wood to the fire and stood. Senta had fought for only one more year, then had joined the Guild, earning far more as an assassin than as a gladiator.

The door opened behind him, and he felt a cold draft. Turning, he saw Miriel walking toward her room. She was naked and carrying her clothes, her body wet from a bath in the stream. His gaze took in her narrow back and waist, the long
muscular legs, and the firm rounded buttocks. Arousal touched him, and he swung back to the fire.

After a few minutes Miriel joined him, her body clothed in a loose robe of gray wool. “What work did you have in mind?” she asked him, seating herself in the chair opposite.

“You know why I slapped you?”

“You wanted to dominate me.”

“No. I wanted to see you angry. I needed to know how you reacted when your blood was high.” Idly he stabbed at the fire with an iron poker. “Listen to me, girl. I am not a teacher. I have trained only two people, young men I loved. Both died. I am … was … a fine fighter, but just because I have a skill does not mean I can pass it on. You understand?” She remained silent, her large eyes staring at him, expressionless. “I was a little in love with Danyal, I think, and I have respect for your father. I came here to warm him so that he would leave the area, travel to Ventria or Gothir. And yes, I could use the gold. But that’s not why I came, nor is it why I agreed to stay. If you choose not to believe me, then I will leave in the morning, and I will not claim the fortune.”

Still she said nothing.

“I don’t know what else I can say to you.” He shrugged and sat back.

“You told me we were going to work,” she said softly. “On my mind. What did you mean?”

He spread his hands and stared into the fire. “Did your father ever tell you about the test he set Danyal?”

“No. But I heard you say I would fail it.”

“Yes, you would.” And Angel told her of the pebble in the moonlight and talked on of the warrior’s heart, the willingness to risk everything, but the confidence to believe the risk was calculated.

“How do I achieve this?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“The two men you trained—did they have it?”

“Ranuld believed he did, but he tied up in his first fight, his muscles tense, his movements halting. Sorrin had it, I think, but he met a better man. It comes from an ability to close off the part of the imagination that is fueled by fear. You know, the part that pictures terrible wounds and gangrene, pumping
blood and the darkness of death. But at the same time the mind must continue to function, seeing the opponent’s weaknesses, planning ways through his defenses. You have seen my scars. I have been cut many times, but always I won. And I beat better men, faster men, stronger men. I beat them because I was too obstinate to give up. And their confidence would begin to fail, and the windows of their minds would creep open. Their imagination would seep out, and they would begin to doubt, to fear. And from that moment it did not matter that they were better or faster or stronger. For I would grow before their eyes, and they would shrink before mine.”

“I will learn,” she promised.

“I doubt it can be learned. Your father became Waylander because his first family was butchered by raiders, but I don’t believe the atrocity
created
Waylander. He was always there, beneath the surface of Dakeyras. The real question is, What lies beneath the surface of Miriel?”

“We will see,” she said.

“Then you wish me to stay?”

“Yes, I wish you to stay. But answer me one question honestly.”

“Ask.”

“What is it
you
fear?”

“Why would you think I fear anything?” he hedged.

“I know that you did not want to stay, and I sense you are torn between your desire to help me and a need to leave. So what is it?”

“The question is a fair one. Let us leave it that you are right. There
is
something I fear, but I am not prepared to talk about it. As you are not prepared to speak of the loss of your talent.”

She nodded. “There is one—or more—among the assassins you do not wish to meet. Am I close?”

“We must thicken the grip on your sword,” he said. “Cut some strips of leather—thin, no wider than a finger’s width. You have glue?”

“Yes. Father makes it from fish bones and hide.”

“First bind the hilt until the size feels comfortable. When curled around it, your longest finger should just touch the flesh below your thumb. When you are satisfied, glue the strips into place.”

“You did not answer me,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “Cut and bind the strips tonight. It will give the glue time to dry. I will see you in the morning.” He rose and strode across the room.

“Angel!”

His hand was on the door latch. “Yes.”

“Sleep well.”

4

D
ARDALION SWUNG AWAY
from the window and faced the two priests standing before his desk.

“The argument,” he said, “is of intellectual interest only. It is of no real importance.”

“How can that be, Father Abbot?” asked Magnic. “Surely it is central to our beliefs.”

“In this I must agree with my brother,” put in the forked-bearded Vishna, his dark eyes staring unblinking at the abbot.

Dardalion beckoned them to be seated and leaned back in his wide leather chair. Magnic looked so young next to Vishna, he thought, his pale face soft-featured and unlined, his blond, unruly hair giving him the appearance of a youth some years from twenty. Vishna, tall and stern, his black forked beard carefully combed and oiled, looked old enough to be Magnic’s father. Yet both were barely twenty-four.

“The debate is of worth only because it makes us consider the Source,” said Dardalion at last. “The pantheistic view that God exists in everything, every stone and every tree, is an interesting one. We believe the universe was created by the Source in a single moment of blinding energy. From nothing came something. What could that something be, save the body of the Source? That is the argument of the pantheists. Your view, Magnic, that the Source is separate from the world and that only the Chaos Spirit rules here, is also widely held. The Source, in a terrible war against his own rebellious angels, sent them hurtling to the earth, there to rule, as he rules in heaven. This argument makes hell of our world. And I would agree that there is strong evidence to suggest that sometimes it is.

“But in all these debates we are trying to imagine the unimaginable, and therein lies a great danger. The Source of
All Things is beyond us. His actions are timeless and so far above our understanding as to make them meaningless to us. Yet still we try to force our minds to comprehend. We struggle to encompass his greatness, to draw him in and place him in acceptable compartments. This leads to dispute and disruption, discord and disharmony. And these are the weapons of the Chaos Spirit.” Dardalion rose and walked around the oak desk to stand beside the two priests, laying a hand on each of them. “The important point is to know that he exists and to trust his judgment. You see, you could both be right and both be wrong. We are dealing here with the cause of all causes, the one great truth in a universe of lies. How can we judge? From what perspective? How does the ant perceive the elephant? All the ant sees is part of the foot. Is that the elephant? It is to the ant. Be patient. When the day of glory arrives, all will be revealed. We will find the Source together, as we have planned.”

“That day is not far off,” said Vishna quietly.

“Not far,” agreed Dardalion. “How is the training progressing?”

“We are strong,” said Vishna, “but we have problems still with Ekodas.”

Dardalion nodded. “Send him to me this evening, after meditation.”

“You will not talk him round, Father Abbot,” ventured Magnic diffidently. “He will leave us rather than fight. He cannot overcome his cowardice.”

“He is not a coward,” said Dardalion, masking his annoyance. “I know this. I once walked the same road, believed the same dreams. Evil can sometimes be countered with love. Indeed, that is the best way. But sometimes evil must be faced with steel and a strong arm, yet do not call him a coward for holding to high ideals. It lessens you as much as it insults him.”

The blond priest blushed furiously. “I am sorry, Father Abbot.”

“And now I am expecting a visitor,” said Dardalion. “Vishna, wait for him at the front gate and bring him straight to my study. Magnic, go to the cellar and fetch a bottle of wine and some bread and cheese.” Both priests stood. “One more thing,” said Dardalion, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Do not shake hands with the man or touch him. And do not try to read his thoughts.”

“Is he evil, then?” asked Vishna.

“No, but his memories would burn you. Now, go and wait for him.”

Dardalion returned to the window. The sun was high, shining down on the distant Delnoch peaks, and from that high window the abbot could just see the faint gray line of the first wall of the Delnoch fortress. His eyes tracked along the colossal peaks of the mountains, traversing west to east toward the distant sea. Low clouds blocked the view, but Dardalion pictured the fortress of Dros Purdol, saw again the dreadful siege, heard the screams of the dying. He sighed. The might of Vagria had been humbled before the walls of Purdol, and the history of the world had changed in those awful months of warfare. Good men had died, iron spears ripping into their bodies …

The first Thirty had been slaughtered there, battling against the demonic powers of the Brotherhood. Dardalion alone had survived. He shivered as he relived the pain of the spear plunging into his back and the loneliness as the souls of his friends flew from him, hurtling toward the eternal serenity of the Source. The Thirty had fought on the astral plane alone, refusing to bear weapons in the world of flesh. How wrong they had been!

The door opened behind him, and he stiffened, his mouth suddenly dry. Swiftly he closed the gates of his talent, shutting out the swelling violence emanating from his visitor. Slowly he turned. His guest was tall, wide-shouldered, yet lean, dark-eyed and stern of appearance. He was dressed all in black, and even the chain-mail shoulder guard was stained with dark dye. Dardalion’s eyes were drawn to the many weapons, the three knives sheathed to the man’s baldric, the throwing blades in scabbards strapped to his forearms, the short saber and crossbow bolt quiver at his side. Two more knives were hidden, he knew, in the man’s knee-length moccasins. But the weapon of death that drew his gaze was the small ebony crossbow the man held in his right hand.

“Good day, Dakeyras,” said Dardalion, and there was no welcome in his voice.

“And to you, Dardalion. You are looking well.”