Waylander II:In The Realm Of The Wolf (4 page)

‘I don’t understand.’

The voice of Dakeyras cut in from the doorway. ‘He means he knows who Kreeg was sent to kill.’ The tall man untied the thong of his black leather cloak and draped it over the chair. Taking up the third silver cup he tossed back the contents.

‘Fifteen thousand in gold,’ said Ralis. ‘Five for the Guild, ten for the man who brings your crossbow to the Citadel. There are said to be more than fifty men scouring the country for news of you. Morak the Ventrian is among them, as are Belash, Courail and Senta.’

‘I’ve heard of Morak and Courail,’ said Dakeyras.

‘Belash is Nadir and a knife-fighter. Senta is a swordsman paid to fight duels. He’s very good - old noble family.’

‘I expect there is also a large reward for information regarding my whereabouts,’ said Dakeyras softly.

‘I wouldn’t doubt it,’ said Ralis, ‘but then it would be a brave man who betrayed Waylander the Slayer.’

‘Are you a brave man?’ The words were spoken gently, but the undercurrent was tense and the old man found his stomach knotting.

‘More guts than sense,’ admitted Ralis, holding the man’s dark gaze.

Waylander smiled. ‘That’s as it should be,’ he said, and the moment passed.

‘What will we do?’ asked Miriel.

‘Prepare for a long winter,’ said Waylander.

Ralis was a light sleeper, and he heard the creaking of leather hinges as the main door opened. The old man yawned and swung his legs from the bed. Although it was almost dawn thin shafts of moonlight were still seeping through the cracks in the shutters of the window. He rose and stretched. The air was cool and fresh with the threat of approaching winter. Ralis shivered and pulled on his warm woollen leggings and tunic.

Opening his bedroom door he stepped into the main room and saw that someone had fanned the embers of last night’s fire, laying fresh kindling on the hungry flames. Waylander was a courteous host, for there would not normally have been a fire this early on an autumn day. Moving to the shuttered window he lifted the latch and pushed at the wooden frame. Outside the moon was fading in a greying sky, the stars retreating, the pale pink of the dawn showing above the eastern peaks.

Movement caught his eye and Ralis squinted, trying to focus. On the mountainside, at least a quarter of a mile distant, he thought he saw a man running. Ralis yawned and returned to the fire, easing himself down into the deep leather chair. The kindling was burning well and he added two seasoned logs from a stack beside the hearth.

So, he thought, the mystery is solved at last. What was surprising was that he felt in such low spirits now. For years he had known Dakeyras and his family, the beautiful wife, the twin girls. And always he had sensed there was more to the mountain man. And the mystery had occupied his mind, perhaps even helping to keep him active at an age when most - if not all - of his youthful contemporaries were dead.

A fugitive, a nobleman having turned his back on wealth and privilege, a refugee from Gothir tyranny… all these he had considered as backgrounds for Dakeyras. And more. But the speculation was now over. Dakeyras was the legendary Waylander - the man who killed King Orien’s son, Niallad. But he was also the hero who had found the hidden Armour of Bronze, returning it to the Drenai people, freeing them from the murderous excesses of the invading Vagrians.

The old man sighed. What fresh mysteries could he find now to exercise his mind, and blot out the passing of time and the inevitable approach of death?

He heard Miriel rise from her bed in the far room. She wandered in, tall and slim and naked. ‘Good morning,’ she said brightly. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Well enough, girl. You should put some clothes on.’ His voice was gruff, the words said in a sharper tone than he had intended. It wasn’t that her nakedness aroused him; it was the opposite, he realised. Her youth and her beauty only made him feel the weight of his years, looming behind him like a mountain. She returned to her room and he leaned back in his chair. When had arousal died? He thought back. It was in Melega that he had first noticed it, some fifteen years before. He had hired a whore, a buxom wench, but had been unable to perform despite all her expert ministrations.

At last she had shrugged. ‘Dead birds cannot rise from the nest,’ she told him cruelly.

Miriel returned, dressed now in grey leggings and a shirt of creamy white wool. ‘Is that more to your liking, sir tinker?’

He forced a smile. ‘Everything about you, my dear, is to my liking. But naked you remind me of all that there once was. Can you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ she said, but he knew she was humouring him. What did the young ever understand? Pulling a tall chair to the fireside she reversed it and sat astride it opposite him, her elbows resting on the high back. ‘You mentioned some of the men who are hunting my father,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me of them?’

‘They are all dangerous men - and there will be those among them I do not know. But I know Morak the Ventrian. He’s deadly, truly deadly. I believe he is insane.’

‘What weapons does he favour?’ she asked.

‘Sabre and knife, but he is a very skilled bowman. And he has great speed - like a striking snake. He’ll kill anyone -man, woman, child, babe in arms. He has a gift for death.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Medium height, slim. He tends to wear green, and he has a ring of heavy gold, set with a green stone. It matches his eyes, cold and hard.’

‘I will watch out for him.’

‘If you see him - kill him,’ snapped Ralis. ‘But you won’t see him.’

‘You don’t think he’ll come here?’

‘That’s not what I said. You would both be best advised to leave here. Even Waylander cannot defeat all who are coming against him.’

‘Don’t underestimate him, tinker,’ she warned.

‘I don’t,’ he replied. ‘But I am an old man, and I know how time makes dotards of us all. Once I was young, fast and strong. But slowly, like water eating at stone, time removes our speed and our strength. Waylander is not a young man. Those hunting him are in their prime.’

She nodded and looked away. ‘So you advise us to run?’

‘Another place, under another name. Yes.’

‘Tell me of the others,’ she said.

And he did, relating all he had heard of Belash, Courail, Senta and many more. She listened, mostly in silence, but occasionally interrupting him with pertinent questions. At last satisfied she had drained his knowledge, she stood.

‘I will prepare you some breakfast,’ she said. ‘I think you have earned it.’

‘What did you gain from my stories?’ he asked her.

‘It is important to know your enemy,’ she answered him. ‘Only with knowledge can you ensure victory.’

Ralis said nothing.

Waylander sat quietly on the rough-hewn platform, high in the oak, staring out to the west, over the rolling plains towards the distant towers of Kasyra. Some four miles to his left he could see the Corn Road, a ribbon of a trail leading from the Sentran Plain south towards Drenan. There were few wagons now, the corn having been gathered and stored, or shipped to markets in Mashrapur or Ventria. He saw several horsemen on the road, all riding towards Kasyra and the surrounding villages.

A cool breeze rustled the leaves around him and he settled back, his mind drifting through the libraries of memory, sifting, seeking. His early training as a soldier in the Sathuli Wars told him that a static enemy was one facing defeat. The forest and mountains of Skein boasted many caves and hiding places, but a persistent enemy would find him, for a man had to hunt to eat, and in hunting he left tracks. No, the soldier he had been knew only one way to win - attack!

But how? And where? And against whom?

The hunt-geld had been placed in the Guild. Even if he were to find the man who had ordered the kill, and slay him, the hunt would go on.

The wind picked up, and Waylander pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his frame. The run had been hard, his ageing muscles complaining at the severity of the exercise, his lungs on fire, his heartbeat a pounding drum. Stretching out his right leg he rubbed at the still-burning muscles of his calf, and thought of all he knew of the Guild.

Fifteen years ago the Guild had approached Waylander, offering to broker his contracts. He had refused them, preferring to work alone. In those days the Guild had been a mysterious, shadowy organisation, operating in secret. Its rules were simple. Firstly, all killings were to be accomplished with blade, shaft or knotted rope. Murder by poison or fire was not allowed - the Guild wished for no innocent victims to be slain. Secondly, all monies were paid direct to the Guild and a signed document was placed with the Patriarch, giving reasons for the contract. Such reasons

could not include matters of the heart, or religious quarrels.

In theory a cuckolded husband could not hire an assassin to murder his wife, her lover, or both. In practice, of course, such niceties never applied. As long as the contractor declared his reasons as being business or political, no questions were asked. Under Karnak the trade had become - if not morally acceptable -at least more legitimate. Waylander smiled. By allowing the Guild to operate openly, the financially-beleaguered Karnak had found yet one more source of taxable income. And in times of war such income was vital to pay soldiers, armourers, merchants, ship-builders, masons . . . the list was endless.

Waylander stood and stretched his aching back. How many would come against him? The Guild would have other contracts to meet. They could not afford to send all their fighters scouring the country for news of him. Seven? Ten? The best would not come first. They would sit back and watch, while lesser men began the hunt, men like Kreeg.

And were they already here, hidden, waiting?

He thought of Miriel and his stomach tightened. She was strong and lithe, skilled with all weapons. But she was young, and had never fought warriors, blade to blade.

Removing his cloak Waylander rolled it and looped it over his shoulder, tying it to his knife-belt. The cold wind bit into his naked chest, but he ignored it as he climbed down the tree. His eyes scanned the undergrowth, but there was nothing to be seen. Swiftly he leapt from the lowest branch, landing lightly on the moss-covered earth.

The first move would have to be left to the enemy. The fact galled him but having accepted it, he pushed it from his mind. All he could do now was prepare himself. You have fought men and beasts, demons and Joinings, he told himself. And you are still alive while your enemies are dust.

I was younger then, came a small voice from his heart.

Spinning on his heel he swept a throwing blade from its forearm sheath and sent it flashing through the air, to plunge home into the narrow trunk of a nearby elm.

Young or old, I am still Waylander.

Miriel watched the old man make his way slowly towards the north-west and the distant fortress of Dros Delnoch. His pack was high on his shoulders, his white hair and beard billowing in the breeze. He stopped at the top of a rise, turned and waved. Then he was gone. Miriel wandered back through the trees, listening to the birdsong, enjoying the leaf-broken sunlight dappling the path. The mountains were beautiful in the autumn, leaves of burnished gold, the last fading blooms of summer, the mountainsides glowing green and purple; all seemingly created just for her pleasure.

Coming to the brow of a hill she paused, her eyes scanning the trees and the paths wending down to the Sentran Plain. A figure moved into sight, a tall man, wearing a cloak of green. The cold of a remembered winter touched her skin, making her shiver, her hand moving to the hilt of the shortsword at her side. The green cloak identified him as the assassin Morak. Well, this was one killer who would not live to attack her father.

Miriel stepped into sight and stood waiting as the man slowly climbed towards her. As he approached she studied his face - his broad, flat cheekbones and scarred and hairless brows, a nose flattened and broken, a harsh gash of a mouth. The chin was square and strong, the neck bulging with muscle.

He paused before her. ‘The path is narrow,’ he said, politely enough. ‘Would you be so kind as to move aside?’

‘Not for the likes of you,’ she hissed, surprised that her voice remained steady, her fear disguised.

‘Is it customary in these parts to insult strangers, girl? Or is it that you rely on gallantry to protect you?’

‘I need nothing to protect me,’ she said, stepping back and drawing her sword.

‘Nice blade,’ he said. ‘Now put it away - lest I take it from you and spank you for your impudence.’

Her eyes narrowed, anger replacing fear, and she smiled.

‘Draw your sword - and we’ll see who suffers,’ she told him.

‘I do not fight girls,’ he replied. ‘I am seeking a man.’

‘I know whom you seek, and why. But to get to him you must first pass me. And that will not be easy with your entrails hanging to your ankles.’ Suddenly she leapt forward, the point of her blade stabbing towards his belly. He swayed aside, his arm flashing up and across, the back of his hand cannoning against her cheek. Miriel stumbled and fell, then rolled to her feet, her face burning from the slap.

The man moved to the right, slipping the thong from his green cloak and laying the garment over a fallen tree. ‘Who taught you to lunge like that?’ he asked. ‘A farmer, perhaps? Or a herdsman? That is not a hoe you are holding. The thrust should always be disguised, and used following a riposte or counter.’ He drew his own sword and advanced on her. Miriel did not wait for his attack, but moved in to meet him, thrusting again, this time at his face. He blocked the blow and spun on his heel, his shoulder thudding into her chest, hurling her from her feet.

She sprang up and rushed in, slashing the blade towards his neck. His own sword swept up, blocking the blow, but this time she spun and leapt, her booted foot cracking against his chin. She expected him to fall but he merely staggered, righted himself, and spat blood from his mouth. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Very good. Swift and in perfect balance. Perhaps there is something to you after all.’

‘You’ll never know,’ she told him, launching an attack of blistering speed, aiming cuts and thrusts to face and body. Each one he blocked, and never once made the riposte. At last she fell back, confused and dismayed. She could not breach his defences, but what was more galling was that he made no attempt to breach hers.

‘Why will you not fight me?’ she asked him.

‘Why should I?’

‘I mean to kill you.’

‘Do you have a reason for this hostility?’ he enquired, the ugly gash of a mouth breaking into a smile.

‘I know you, Morak. I know why you are here. That should be enough.’

‘It would . . .’ he started to say, but she attacked again, and this time he wasn’t quite fast enough, her blade slicing past his face and cutting his earlobe. His fist lashed out and up, thundering against her chin. Half-stunned, Miriel lost her grip on her sword and fell to her knees. The newcomer’s blade touched her neck. ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ he said, moving away from her and picking up his cloak.

Gathering her sword she faced him again. ‘I will not let you pass,’ she said grimly.

‘You couldn’t stop me,’ he told her, ‘but it was a game effort. Now where is Waylander?’ She advanced again. ‘Wait,’ he said, sheathing his sword. ‘I am not Morak. You understand me? I am not from the Guild.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, her blade now resting on his throat.

“Then believe this: had I wished to kill you I would have. You know that is true.’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Angel,’ he answered, ‘and a long time ago I was a friend to your family.’

‘You are here to help us?’

‘I don’t fight other men’s battles, girl. I came to warn him. I see now it was unnecessary.’

Slowly she lowered her sword. ‘Why are they hunting him? He has harmed no one.’

He shrugged. ‘Not for many a year, I’ll grant you that, but he has many enemies. It is one of the drawbacks of an assassin’s life. Did he teach you to use a sword?’

‘Yes.’

‘He ought to be ashamed of himself. Swordfighting is heart and mind in perfect harmony,’ he said sternly. ‘Did he not tell you that?’

‘Yes he did,’ she snapped.

‘Ah, but like most women you only listen when it suits you. Yes, I can see that. Well, can you cook?’

Holding back her temper she gave her sweetest smile. ‘I

can. I can also embroider, knit, sew, and what else? Ah yes . . .’ Her fist cracked against his chin. Standing alongside the fallen tree he had no time to move his feet and steady himself, and a second blow sent him sprawling across the trunk to land in a mud-patch on the other side. ‘I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘He taught me to fight with my fists.’

Angel pushed himself to his knees and slowly rose. ‘My first wife was like you,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘A dreadful woman, soft as goosedown on the outside, baked leather and iron inside. But I’ll say this, girl - he did a better job of teaching you to punch than he did to thrust. Can we have a truce now?’

Miriel chuckled. Truce,’ she agreed.

Angel rubbed his swollen jaw as he walked behind the tall mountain woman. A kick like an angry horse and a punch almost as powerful. He smiled ruefully, his eyes watching the way she moved, graceful and yet economical. She fought well, he conceded, but with too much head and too little instinct. Even the punches she had thrown had been ill-disguised, but Angel had allowed them to land, sensing she needed some outlet for frustration at having been so easily defeated.

A proud woman. And attractive, he decided, somewhat to his surprise. Angel had always favoured big-breasted women, buxom and comfortable, warm between the sheets. Miriel was a mite thin for his taste and her legs, though long and beautifully proportioned, were just a little too muscular. Still, as the saying went, she was a woman to walk the mountains with.

He chuckled suddenly, and she turned. ‘Something is amusing you?’ she asked, her expression frosty.

‘Not at all, Miriel. I was just remembering the last time I walked these mountains. You and your sister would have been around eight, maybe nine. I was thinking that life goes by with bewildering speed.’

‘I don’t remember you,’ she said.

‘I looked different then. This squashed nose was

aquiline, and my brows boasted hair. It was long before the mailed gloves of other fist-fighters cut and slashed at the skin. My mouth too was fuller. And I had long red hair that hung to my shoulders.’

She leaned in close, peering at him. ‘You were not called Angel then,’ she announced.

‘No. I was Caridris.’

‘I remember now. You brought me a dress - a yellow dress, and a green one for Krylla. But you were . . .’

‘Handsome? Yes, I was. And now I am ugly.’

‘I did not mean

‘No matter, girl. All beauty passes. I chose a rough occupation.’

‘I don’t understand how any man would wish to pursue such a way of life. Causing pain, being hurt, risking death -and for what? So that a crowd of fat-bellied merchants can see blood flow.’

‘I used to think there was more to it,’ he said softly, ‘but now I will not argue with you. It was brutal and barbaric, and mostly I loved it.’

They walked on to the cabin. After he had eaten Angel sat down by the dying fire and pulled off his boots. He glanced at the hearth. ‘A little early for fires, isn’t it?’

‘We had a guest - an old man,’ said Miriel, seating herself opposite him. ‘He feels the cold.’

‘Old Ralis?’ he enquired.

‘Yes. You know him?’

‘He’s been plying his trade between Drenan and Delnoch for years - decades. He used to make knives the like of which I’ve never seen since. Your father has several.’

‘I’m sorry I struck you,’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t know why I did it.’

‘I’ve been struck before,’ he answered, with a shrug. ‘And you were angry.’

‘I am not usually so… short-tempered. But I think I am a little afraid.’

‘That is a good way to be. I’ve always been careful around fearless men - or women. They have a tendency to

get you killed. But take some advice, young Miriel. When the hunters come don’t challenge them with the blade. Shoot them from a distance.’

‘I thought I was good with a sword. My father always tells me I am better than him.’

‘In practice, maybe, but in combat I would doubt it. You think out your moves and that robs you of speed. Sword-play requires subtle skills and a direct link between hand and mind. I’ll show you.’ Leaning to his right he lifted a long twig from the tinderbox and stood. ‘Stand opposite me,’ he ordered her. Then, holding the stick between his index fingers he said: ‘Put your hand over the stick and, when I release it, catch it. Can you do that?’

‘Of course, it is . . .’ As she was answering him he opened his fingers. The twig dropped sharply. Miriel’s hand flashed down, her fingers closing on air, and the twig landed at her feet. ‘I wasn’t ready,’ she argued.

‘Then try again.’

Twice more she missed the falling twig. ‘What does it prove?’ she snapped.

‘Reaction time, Miriel. The hand should move as soon as the eye sees the twig fall - but yours doesn’t. You see the twig. You send a message to your hand. Then you move. By this time the twig is falling away from you.’

‘How else can anyone catch it?’ she asked him. ‘You have to tell your hand to move.’

He shook his head. ‘You will see.’

‘Show me,’ she demanded.

‘Show her what?’ asked Waylander from the doorway.

‘She wants to learn to catch twigs,’ said Angel, turning slowly.

‘It’s been a long time, Caridris. How are you?’ asked the mountain man, the small crossbow pointing at Angel’s heart.

‘Not here looking for a kill, my friend. I don’t work for the Guild. I came to warn you.’