Waylander II:In The Realm Of The Wolf (10 page)

‘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 sorcerors and several shamen telling me similar stories, though none named a single tribe. But you have other

reasons for wanting the Wolves destroyed, otherwise 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 travelling 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, and 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 upon 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 armour 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.’

Morak 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 mould, 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-humour.

‘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 skilful 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?’ asked Belash, 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?’ enquired 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 recognised 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 recognised 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 wasn’t 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 Bans 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.’

‘Yes, yes, yes! I am sure he would be delighted to know you are among his greatest admirers. But he’s older now. He retired. Just walk in, engage him in conversation, then kill him. If that sounds a little too difficult for you, then head for Kasyra - and kiss goodbye to any thought of a share in ten thousand gold pieces.’

‘Why don’t you kill him?’ asked Jonas. ‘You’re the swordsman here.’

‘Are you suggesting that I am frightened of him?’ countered Morak, his voice ominously low.

‘No, not at all,’ answered Jonas, reddening. ‘We all know how . . . skilled you are. I just wondered, that’s all.’

‘Have you ever seen the nobles hunt, Jonas?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you noticed how, when chasing boar, they take hounds with them?’

The man nodded glumly. ‘Good,’ said Morak. ‘Then take this thought into that pebble-sized brain: I am a hunting noble and you are my dogs. Is that clear? I am not being paid to kill Angel. I am paying you.’

‘We could always shoot him from a distance, I suppose,’ said Jonas. ‘WardaFs very good with that bow.’

‘Fine,’ muttered Morak. ‘Just so long as it is done. But bring the girl to me, safe and hearty. You understand? She is the key to Waylander.’

‘That is against Guild rules,’ said Belash. ‘No innocents may be used . . .’

‘I know the Guild rules!’ snapped Morak. ‘And when I want lessons in proper conduct I shall be sure to call on you. After all, the Nadir are well known for their rigid observance of civilised behaviour.’

‘I know what you want from the girl,’ said Belash. ‘And it is not this key to her father.’

‘A man is entitled to certain pleasures, Belash. They are what make living worthwhile.’

The Nadir nodded. ‘I have known some men who share the same . . . pleasures … as you. When we catch them among the Nadir we cut off their hands and feet and stake them out over anthills. But then, as you say, we do not understand you civilised people.’

The face was huge and white as a fish belly, the eye sockets empty, the lids shaped like fangs, clacking as they closed. The mouth was lipless, the tongue enormous and cratered with tiny mouths.

Miriel took Krylla’s hand, and the children tried to flee -but the demon was faster, stronger. One scaled hand closed on Miriel’s arm, the touch burning.

‘Bring them to me!’ came a soft voice, and Miriel saw a man standing close by, his face also pale, his skin scaled like a beautiful albino snake. But there was nothing beautiful about the man. Krylla began to cry.

The monstrous creature that held them leaned over the children, touching the cavernous mouth to Miriel’s face. She felt pain then, terrible pain. And she screamed.

And screamed . . .

‘Wake up, girl,’ said the demon, his hand once more on her shoulder. Her fingers snaked out, clawing at his face, but he grabbed her wrist. ‘Stop this. It is me, Angel!’

Her eyes flared open and she saw the rafters of the cabin, the light of the moon seeping through the knife-thin gaps in the shutters, felt the rough wool of the blankets on her naked frame. She shuddered and fell back. He stroked her brow, pushing back the sweat-drenched hair. ‘Just a

dream, girl. Just a dream,’ he whispered. She said nothing for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. Her mouth was dry and she sat up, reaching for the goblet of water by her bedside.

‘It was a nightmare. Always the same one,’ she said, between sips. ‘Krylla and I were being hunted across a dark place, an evil place. Valleys without trees, a sky without sun or moon, grey, soulless.’ She shivered. ‘Demons caught us, and terrible men . . .’

‘It’s over,’ he assured her. ‘You are awake now.’

‘It’s never over. It’s a dream now - but it wasn’t then.’ She shivered again, and he reached out, drawing her to him, his arms upon her back, his hand patting her. Lowering her head to his shoulder she felt better. The remembered cold of the Void was strong in her mind, and the warmth of his skin pushed it back.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

‘It was after Mother died. We were frightened, Krylla and me. Father was acting strangely, shouting and weeping. We knew nothing about drunken men. And to see Father stumbling and falling was terrifying. Krylla and I used to sit in our room, holding hands. We used to soar our spirits high into the sky. We were free then. Safe - so we thought. But one night, as we played beneath the stars we realised we were not alone. There were other spirits in the sky with us. They tried to catch us, and we fled. We flew so fast, and with such terror in our hearts that we had no idea where we were. But the sky was grey, the land desolate. Then the demons came. Summoned by the men.’

‘But you escaped from them.’

‘Yes. No. Another man appeared, in silver armour. We knew him. He fought the demons, killing them, and brought us home. He was our friend. But he does not appear in my dreams now.’

‘Lie back,’ said Angel. ‘Have a little gentle sleep.’

‘No. I don’t want the dream again.’

Pulling back the woollen blanket Angel slid in beside her, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘No demons, Miriel. I shall be here to bring you back if there are.’ Pulling the

blanket up around them both he lay still. She could feel the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart and closed her eyes.

She slept for a little over an hour and awoke refreshed. Angel was sleeping soundlessly beside her. In the faint light of pre-dawn his ugliness was softened, and she tried to picture him as he had been all those years ago when he had brought her the dress. It was almost impossible. Her arm was draped across his chest and she slowly drew it back, feeling the softness of his skin and the contrasting ridges of hard muscle across his belly. He did not wake, and Miriel felt a powerful awareness of her own nakedness. Her hand slid down, the tips of her fingers brushing over the pelt of tightly curled hair below his navel. He stirred. She halted all movement, aware now of her increased heartbeat. Fear touched her, but it was a delicious fear. There had been village boys who had filled her with longing, left her dreaming of forbidden trysts. But never had she felt like this, the onset of fear synchronised to her passion. Never had she been so aware of her desires. Her needs. His breathing deepened again. Her hand slid down, fingers caressing him, circling him, feeling him quicken and swell.

Doubt followed by panic suddenly flared within her. What if he opened his eyes? He could be angry at her boldness, might think her a whore. Which I am, she thought, with a burst of self-disgust. Releasing him she rolled from the bed. She had bathed the previous night, but somehow the thought of ice-cold water on her skin seemed not only pleasurable, but necessary. Moving carefully to avoid waking him she eased open the bedroom door and crossed the cabin floor.

Lifting the bar from its brackets she opened the main door and stepped out into the sunlit clearing before the cabin. The bushes and trees were still silvered with dew, the autumn sunlight weak upon her skin. How could she have acted so, she wondered as she strolled to the stream. Miriel had often dreamed of lovers, but never in her fantasies had they been ugly. Never had they been so old. And she knew she was not in love with the former

gladiator. No, she realised, that’s what makes you a whore. You just wanted to rut like an animal.

Reaching the stream she sat down on the grass, her feet dangling in the water. Flowing from the high mountains there were small rafts of ice on the surface, like frozen lilies. And it was cold.

She heard a movement behind her but, lost in thought, she was not swift enough, and as she rolled to her feet a man’s hands caught her shoulder, hurling her to the grass. Ramming her elbow sharply back she connected with his belly. He grunted in pain and sagged across her. The smell of woodsmoke, greasy leather and stale sweat filled her nostrils and a bearded face fell against her cheek. Twisting she slammed the heel of her hand against the man’s nose, snapping his head back. Scrambling to her feet she tried to run, but the man grabbed her ankle, and a second man leapt from hiding. Miriel’s fist cracked against the newcomer’s chin, but his weight carried him forward and she was knocked to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her.

‘A real Hellcat,’ grunted the second man, a tall blond forester. ‘Are you all right, Jonas?’ The first man struggled to his feet, blood seeping from his nose and streaming into his black beard.

‘Hold her still, Baris. I’ve just the weapon to bring her to heel.’ The balding warrior began to unfasten the thongs of his leggings, moving forward to stand over Miriel.

‘You heard what Morak said. Unharmed,’ objected Baris.

‘I’ve never known a woman harmed by it yet,’ responded Jonas.

Miriel, her arms and shoulders pinned, arched her back then sent her right foot slamming up between the forester’s legs. Jonas grunted and slumped to his knees. Baris slapped her face, grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet. ‘Don’t give up, do you?’ he snarled, slapping her again, this time with the back of his hand. Miriel sagged against him.

That’s better,’ he said. Her head came up sharply, cannoning against his chin. He stumbled back, then drew his knife, his arm arcing back for the throw. Miriel, still

half-stunned, threw herself to her right, rolling to her knees. Then she was up and running.

Another man jumped into her path, but she swerved round him, and almost made the clearing before a stone from a sling ricocheted from her temple. Falling to her knees she tried to crawl into the undergrowth, but the sound of running feet behind her told her she was finished. Her head ached, and her senses swam. Then she heard Angel’s voice.

‘Time to die, my boys.’

Miriel awoke in her own bed, a water-soaked cloth on her brow, her head throbbing painfully. She tried to sit up, but felt giddy then sick. ‘Lie still,’ said Angel. ‘That was a nasty strike. You’ve a lump the size of a goose egg.’

‘Did you kill them?’ she whispered weakly.

‘No. Never seen men run so fast. They sent up a cloud of dust. I have a feeling they knew me - it was very gratifying.’

Miriel closed her eyes. ‘Don’t tell my father I went out without weapons.’

‘I won’t. But it was stupid. What were you thinking of-the dream?’

‘No, not the dream. I just … I was just stupid, as you say.’

‘The man who never made a mistake never made anything,’ he said.

‘I’m not a man!’

‘I’d noticed. But I’m sure it holds true for women. Two of the men were bleeding, so I’d guess you caused them some pain before they downed you. Well done, Miriel.’

That’s the first time you’ve praised me. Be careful. It might go to my head.’

He patted her hand. ‘I can be a mean whoreson, I know that. But you’re a fine girl - tough, strong, willing. I don’t want to see your spirit broken - but I don’t want to see your body broken, either. And I know only one way to teach. I’m not even sure I know that very well.’

She tried to smile, but the pain was growing and she felt herself slipping into sleep.

Thank you,’ she managed to say. “Thank you for being there.’

From his high study window Dardalion saw the troop of lancers slowly climbing the winding path, twenty-five men in silver armour, cloaked in crimson, riding jet-black horses, their flanks armoured in chain-mail. At their head rode a man Dardalion knew well. Against the sleek, martial perfection of his men Karnak should have looked comical; overweight and dressed in clothes of clashing colours - red cloak, orange shirt, green trews tied with blue leggings and below them black riding boots, edged with a silver trim. But no one laughed at his eccentric dress. For this was the hero of Dros Purdol, the saviour of the Drenai.

Karnak the One-eyed.

The man’s physical strength was legendary, but it paled against the colossal power of his personality. With one speech he could turn a motley group of farmers into sword-wielding heroes who would defy an army. Dardalion’s smile faded. Aye, and they would die for him, had died for him - in their thousands. They would go on dying for him.

Vishna entered the study, his spirit voice whispering into Dardalion’s mind, ‘Will their arrival delay the Debate, Father?’

‘No.’

‘Was it wise to instruct Ekodas to argue the cause of right?’

‘Is it the cause of right?’ countered Dardalion, speaking aloud and swinging to face the dark-bearded Gothir nobleman.

‘You have always taught me so.’

‘We shall see, my boy. Now go down and escort the Lord Karnak to me. And see that his men are fed, the horses groomed. They have ridden far.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Dardalion returned to the window, but he did not see the distant mountains, nor the storm clouds looming in the north. He saw again the cabin on the mountainside, the two frightened children, and the two men who had come to kill them. And he felt the weight of the weapon of death in his hands. He sighed. The cause of right? Only the Source knew.

He heard the sound of booming laughter from the winding stairs beyond his room, and felt the immense physical presence of Karnak even before the man crossed the threshold.

‘Gods, but it is good to see you, old lad!’ boomed Karnak, striding across the room and clasping a huge hand to Dardalion’s shoulder. The man’s smile was wide and genuine, and Dardalion returned it.

‘And you, my lord. I see your dress sense is as colourful as ever.’

‘Like it? The cloak is from Mashrapur, the shirt from a little weavery in Drenan.’

‘They suit you well.’

‘By Heaven you are a terrible liar, Dardalion. I expect your soul will burn in Hellfire. Now sit you down and let us talk of more important matters.’ The Drenai leader moved round the desk to take Dardalion’s chair, leaving the slender Abbot to sit opposite him. Karnak unbuckled his sword-belt, laying it on the floor beside him, then eased his great bulk into the seat. ‘Damned uncomfortable furniture,’ he said. ‘Now, where were we? Ah, yes! What can you tell me about the Ventrians?’

‘They will sail within the week, landing at Purdol, Erekban and the Earis estuary,’ answered Dardalion.

‘How many ships?’

‘More than four hundred.’

‘That many, eh? I don’t suppose you’d consider whipping up a storm to sink the bastards?’