Waylander II:In The Realm Of The Wolf (21 page)

Vishna appeared, lancing his sword through the man’s back. More warriors appeared above the temple, and the Thirty gathered, silver against black, swords of light against blades of fire.

Ekodas fought on, his sword forming glittering arcs of white light as it clove into the enemy. Beside him Vishna battled with controlled fury. All around them the battle raged in an awful silence.

And then it was over.

Weary beyond anything he had ever experienced, Ekodas returned to his body and sat up. He reached over to Duris, but the man was dead. So too was Branic in the far bed.

Ekodas stumbled from the room, down to the hall. One by one the members of the Thirty gathered there. Twenty-three priests had survived the attack, and Ekodas looked from face to face, seeking out those to whom he was closest. Glendrin was alive. And Vishna. But Magnic was

gone. It seemed only moments before he had been talking with the blond priest about life and desire. Now there was only a body to be buried, and they would never, in this world, speak again.

The full weight of sorrow descended upon Ekodas and he sank to the bench-seat, resting his elbows on the table. Vishna moved alongside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

‘Your warning saved us, Ekodas,’ he said.

‘My warning?’

‘You woke Dardalion. He made the Gather.’

Before Ekodas could respond Dardalion spoke up from the far end of the hall. ‘My brothers, it is time to pray for the souls of our departed friends.’ One by one he named them and many tears were shed as he talked of them. ‘They are with the Source now, and are blessed. But we remain. Some days ago we asked for another sign. I think that we have just seen it. The Brotherhood are preparing to ride against the Nadir. It is my belief that we should be in the Mountains of the Moon to receive them. But that is only my view. What is the view of the Thirty?’

Ekodas rose. ‘The Mountains of the Moon,’ he said.

Vishna echoed the words, as did Glendrin, Palista, fat Merlon and all the surviving priests.

Tomorrow then,’ said Dardalion. ‘And now let us prepare the bodies of our friends for burial.’

Angel’s head was pounding, and his anger flowed unabated as Miriel paid the fine to the master-at-arms.

‘We don’t like troublemakers here,’ the man told Miriel. ‘Only his reputation prevented him from receiving the flogging he deserves.’

‘We are leaving Delnoch today,’ she said, smiling sweetly as the man counted out the twenty silver coins.

‘I mean, who does he think he is?’ the soldier persisted.

‘Why not ask me, you arrogant whoreson?’ stormed Angel, his hands gripping the bars of the cell door.

‘You see?’ said the man, shaking his head.

‘He is not usually quarrelsome,’ replied Miriel, casting a warning glance at the former gladiator.

‘I think he should have been flogged,’ put in Senta, with a broad grin. ‘What a mess. The tavern looks as though a tidal wave flowed through it. Disgraceful behaviour.’

Angel merely glared. The master-at-arms slowly rose and lifted a huge ring of keys from a hook by the door. ‘He is to be taken straight from Delnoch. No stopping. Are your horses outside?’

‘They are,’ said Miriel.

‘Good.’ He unlocked the cell door and the glowering Angel stepped into the room. One eye was blackened and half-closed, and his lower lip was split.

‘I’d say it was an improvement,’ said Senta.

Angel pushed past him, striding out into the sunlight. Belash was waiting, his dark eyes inscrutable.

‘Don’t say a word!’ warned Angel, snatching the reins of his mount from the tethering post and climbing into the saddle. Miriel and Senta emerged into the sunlight, the master-at-arms behind them.

‘Straight out, no stopping,’ repeated the soldier.

Miriel swung into the saddle and led the group down to

the gate-tunnel below the fifth wall. Sentries examined the passes Miriel had obtained and waved them through, across the open ground to the next tunnel, and the next. At last they rode out into the pass itself.

Senta moved his horse alongside Angel’s mount. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘Why don’t you go …” He closed his mouth on the words as Miriel reined back, swinging her horse alongside.

‘What happened, Angel?’ she asked.

‘Why don’t you read my mind and find out?’ he snapped.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You and Senta are right - it is bad manners. I’ll not do it again, I promise. So tell me how the fight started.’

‘It was just a fight,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘Nothing to tell.’

Miriel turned to Belash. ‘You were there?’

The Nadir nodded. ‘A man asked old Hard-to-Kill what it is like to have a face that a cow has trampled on.’

‘Yes? And then?’

‘He said, “Like this!” Then he broke the man’s nose.’ Belash mimicked the blow, a straight left.

Senta’s laughter pealed out, echoing in the pass. ‘It is not something to laugh at,’ insisted Miriel. ‘One man with a broken nose and jaw, two others with broken arms. One even fractured his leg.’

‘That was the man he threw out of the window,’ said Belash. ‘And it was not even open.’

‘Why were you so angry?’ Miriel asked Angel. ‘Back at the cabin you were always so … so controlled.’

He relaxed and sat slumped in the saddle. ‘That was then,’ he told her, touching his heels to the gelding and riding ahead.

Senta glanced at Miriel. ‘You don’t see a great deal without your Talent, do you?’ he observed, urging his horse into a canter and coming alongside Angel once more.

‘What now?’ asked the gladiator.

‘You took out six men with your bare hands. That’s impressive, Angel.’

‘Is there a joke coming?’

‘No. I’m sorry I missed the fight.’

‘It wasn’t much. A bunch of town-dwellers. Not a single muscle in sight.’

‘I’m glad you decided to stay with us. I’d have missed your company.’

‘I’d not miss yours, boy.’

‘Oh yes, you would. Tell me, how long have you been in love with her?’

‘What kind of a stupid question is that?’ stormed Angel. ‘I’m not in love. Shemak’s balls, Senta, look at me! I’m almost as old as her father and my face would curdle milk. No, she’ll be better off with a younger man. Even you, may my tongue turn black for saying it.’

Senta was about to speak when he saw a rider emerging from the rocks to the left. It was a young Nadir woman with jet-black hair, wearing a goatskin tunic and tan leggings. Belash galloped past them and leapt from the saddle. The woman dismounted and embraced him. Miriel, Senta and Angel sat their mounts quietly as the two Nadir conversed in their own tongue. Then Belash led the girl to the waiting trio.

“This is Shia, my sister. She was sent to find me,’ he told them.

‘It is good to meet you,’ said Senta.

‘Why? You do not know me.’

‘It is a traditional greeting,’ he explained.

‘Ah. What is the traditional response?’

“That depends on the circumstances,’ said Senta. ‘And this is Miriel.’ Shia glanced at the tall mountain woman, seeing the knives on the black baldric and the sabre at her side.

‘What a strange people,’ she said. ‘Men who live like women and women who arm themselves like men. Truly it is beyond understanding.’

‘And this is Angel.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Old Hard-to-Kill. It-is-good-to-meet-you.’ Angel shook his head and grunted. Tugging his reins he moved off down the pass. ‘Was the greeting incorrect?’ Shia asked Senta.

‘He’s having a bad day,’ observed the swordsman.

Bodalen tried to blame his trembling on the cold wind hissing down from the high passes of the Mountains of the Moon, but he knew better. Seven days from Gulgothir, and deep into Nadir territory his fear was almost uncontrollable. The eleven riders had skirted three small tent villages and encountered no hostile action, but Bodalen’s mind was filled with images of torture and mutilation. He had heard many stories of the Nadir, and the thought that the tribesmen were close was unmanning him.

What am I doing here, he asked himself. Riding into a hostile land with scum like Gracus and his men. It’s your fault, Father. Always pushing, cajoling, forcing! I’m not like you. I never was, nor would I wish to be! But you made me what I am.

He recalled the day Galen had first approached him, bringing with him the refined Lorassium leaf, and remembered with pleasure the taste of it upon his tongue, bitter and numbing. And with it the exquisite thrill that ran through his veins. All his fears vanished, all his dreams grew. Joy beyond reckoning flooded his senses. Oh, yes. The memories of the orgies that had followed aroused him even now, as his horse slowly trudged along the mountain trail. Passion, and the daring excitement of pain inflicted on willing - aye and unwilling - partners, the slender whips, the begging screams.

Then Galen had introduced him to the Lord Zhu Chao. And the promises began. When Karnak - that bloated, self-obsessed tyrant - was dead it would be Bodalen who would rule the Drenai. And he could fill his palace with concubines and slaves. A lifetime of pleasure, free from restraint. What price those promises now?

He shivered and swung to see the dark, hawk-like Gracus riding just behind him, the other riders following in a silent line. ‘Almost there, Lord Bodalen,’ said Gracus, unsmiling.

Bodalen nodded, but did not reply. He knew he lacked

his father’s physical courage, but he lacked nothing of his intelligence. Zhu Chao no longer saw him as a person of value. He was being used as an assassin.

Where had it all gone wrong? He licked his lips. That was easy to answer. When that damned girl had died.

Waylander’s daughter.

What a cursed trick of fate!

His horse reached the crest of the trail and Bodalen gazed down on a green valley, with sparkling streams. It was some two miles across and perhaps four deep, and at the centre reared an ancient fortress with four turrets and a portcullis gate. Bodalen blinked and rubbed his eyes. The turrets were leaning and twisted, the walls uneven, as if the earth had reared up below the structure. And yet it still stood.

Gracus drew alongside. ‘Kar-Barzac,’ he said.

‘It looks like something fashioned by a drunken man,’ said Bodalen.

Gracus shrugged, unconcerned. ‘We can shelter there,’ he answered.

Slowly the eleven riders filed down into the valley. Bodalen could not take his eyes from the citadel. The windows, archers’ slits, were not straight but crooked, each a different height, some canted, others stretched. ‘It couldn’t have been built like that, surely?’ he asked Gracus. One of the towers leaned out at an impossible angle, and yet there were no cracks in the great stones. As they grew closer Bodalen remembered a visit to an armoury when he was a child. Karnak had showed him a great furnace. They had thrown an iron helm into the fire and the boy had watched as it slowly melted. Kar-Barzac was like that helm.

They rode across the valley and Gracus pointed at a nearby tree. The trunk was split and had curled around itself, forming a weird knot. And the leaves were sharp and long, five-pronged and red as blood. Bodalen had never seen a tree like it.

As they neared the citadel they saw the half-eaten carcass of a bighorn sheep. Gracus angled his mount to ride

close to the body. Bodalen followed him. The sheep’s eyes were gone, but the head remained, mouth wide open.

‘By the blood of Missael!’ whispered Bodalen. The sheep had short, pointed fangs.

‘This valley is bewitched!’ said one of the men.

‘Be silent!’ roared Gracus, dismounting. He knelt by the carcass. ‘It looks as if it has been chewed by rats,’ he said. ‘The bite-marks are small.’ He stood and swung into the saddle.

Bodalen felt his unease growing. Everything in this valley seemed unnatural. Sweat rolled down his back. He glanced at Gracus, noting the beads of perspiration on his brow. ‘Is it just fear, or is it hotter here?’ he asked the warrior.

‘It’s hotter,’ answered Gracus. ‘But that’s often the way with mountain valleys.’

‘Not this hot, surely?’

‘Let’s get to the castle,’ said Gracus.

A horse screamed and reared, unseating the rider. Instantly a host of rat-like creatures swarmed from the long grass, leaping on the man, covering him in a blanket of grey striped fur. Blood spouted from a score of wounds. Gracus swore and kicked his horse into a gallop, Bodalen following him.

No one even looked back.

The ruined gates of the castle loomed before them and the ten remaining riders galloped into the courtyard beyond. This too was uneven, but showed no cracks, nor breaks in the marble. Bodalen swung down from the saddle and ran to a rampart stair, climbing swiftly to the crooked battlements. Out on the valley floor all was still, save for the writhing, grey fur mounds where once had been horse and man.

‘We can’t stay here!’ said Bodalen, as Gracus joined him at the battlements.

The master has ordered it. That is an end to the matter.’

‘What were those things?’

‘I don’t know. Some kind of small cat, perhaps.’

‘Cats don’t hunt like that,’ insisted Bodalen.

‘Rats! Cats! What difference does it make? The master says to hide here and kill Kesa Khan. That we will do.’

‘But what if there are creatures like that living below the castle? What then, Gracus?’

‘We will die,’ answered the warrior, with a grim smile. ‘So let us hope there are none.’

Waylander lay flat, he and Scar part-covered by his cloak, reversed now so that the sheepskin lining merged with the snow around him. His right arm was stretched out over the dog and he stroked the broad head. ‘Stay silent, boy,’ he whispered. ‘Our lives depend on it.’ No more than sixty paces back down the trail seven Sathuli warriojs were examining tracks in the snow. The gash in Waylander’s leg was healing fast, but the wound in his upper left arm nagged at him. They had almost surprised him two days before, laying an ambush in a narrow pass. Four Sathuli had died in the attack, a fifth left mortally wounded, his lifeblood gushing from a tear in the great artery at the groin. Scar had killed two, but had it not been for a sudden change in the direction of the wind which alerted the hound, Waylander would now be dead. As it was his arm ached, the wound constantly leaking blood. It was too far back for him to stitch the tear, and too close to the shoulder joint to bandage. A low rumbling growl began in Scar’s throat, but he patted the dog, whispering soothing words.