Waylander II:In The Realm Of The Wolf (5 page)

Waylander nodded. ‘I heard you retired from the arena. What do you do now?’

‘I sold hunting weapons. I had a place in the market square, but it was sequestered against my debts.’

‘Ten thousand gold pieces would buy it back for you,’ said Waylander coldly.

‘Indeed it would - five times over. But as I have already told you, I do not work for the Guild. And do not even think of calling me a liar!’

Waylander pulled the bolts clear of the weapon then released the strings. Dropping the bow to the table he turned back to the scarred fighter. ‘You are no liar,’ he said. ‘But why would you warn me? We were never close.’

Angel shrugged. ‘I was thinking of Danyal. I didn’t want to see her widowed. Where is she?’

Waylander did not reply, but Angel saw the colour fade from his face, and a look of anguish that was swiftly masked. ‘You may stay the night,’ said Waylander. ‘And I thank you for your warning.’ With that he took up his crossbow and left the cabin.

‘My mother died,’ whispered Miriel. ‘Five years ago.’ Angel sighed and sank back in his chair. ‘You knew her well?’ she asked.

‘Well enough to be a little in love with her. How did she die?’

‘She was riding. The horse fell and rolled on her.’

‘After all she’d been through . . . battles and wars . . .’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no sense to such things, none at all. Unless it be that the gods have a grim sense of humour. Five years, you say. Gods! He must have adored her to stay alone this long.’

‘He did. He still does, spending too much time by her grave, talking to her as if she can still hear him. He does that here sometimes.’

‘I see it now,’ said Angel softly.

‘What do you see?’

‘Isn’t it obvious, Miriel? The killers are gathering -assassins, hunters, stalkers of the night. He cannot kill them all, he knows that. So why is he still here?’

‘You tell me.’

‘He’s like the old stag hunted by wolves. It takes to the high ground, knowing it is finished, and then it turns and waits, facing the enemy for one last battle.’

‘But he’s not like that stag. He’s not old! He’s not! And he’s not finished, either.’

‘That’s not how he sees it. Danyal was what he lived for. Perhaps he thinks that in death they will be reunited, I don’t know. What I do know - and so does he - is that to stay here means death.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Miriel, but her words carried no conviction.

Floating on a sea of pain Ralis knew he was dying; his arms were tied behind him, the skin of his chest was seared and cut, his legs broken. All his dignity had been stripped from him in the screams of anguish the knives and hot irons had torn from his soul. There was nothing of the man left, save one small flickering spark of pride.

He had told them nothing. Cold water drenched him, easing the pain of the burns and he opened his one remaining eye. Morak knelt before him, an easy smile on his handsome face.

‘I can free you from this pain, old man,’ he said. Ralis said nothing. ‘What is he to you? A son? A nephew? Why do you suffer this for him? You have walked these mountains for what . . . fifty, sixty years? He’s here and you know where he is. We will find him anyway, eventually.’

‘He . . . will. . . kill you . . . all,’ whispered Ralis.

Morak laughed, the others following his lead. Ralis smelt the burning of his flesh moments before the pain seared into his skull. But his throat was hoarse and bleeding from screaming and he could only utter a short, broken groan.

And suddenly, wonderfully, the pain passed, and Ralis heard a voice calling to him.

He rose from his bonds and flew towards the voice. ‘I did not tell them, Father,’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘I did not tell them!’

‘Old fool,’ said Morak, as he stared at the corpse sagging against the ropes. ‘Let’s go!’

‘Tough old man,’ put in Belash as they left the glade. Morak rounded on the stocky Nadir tribesman.

‘He made us waste half a day - and for what? Had he told

us at the start, he would have walked off with ten, maybe twenty gold pieces. Now he’s dead meat for the foxes and the carrion birds. Yes, he was tough. But he was also stupid!’

Belash’s jet-black eyes stared up into Morak’s face. ‘He died with honour,’ muttered the Nadir. ‘And great will be his welcome in the Hall of Heroes.’

Morak’s laughter welled out. ‘The Hall of Heroes, eh? They must be getting short of men if they need to rely on elderly tinkers. What stories will he tell around the great table? How I sold a knife for twice its worth, or how I mended a broken cookpot? I can see there’ll be some merry evenings ahead for all of them.’

‘Most men mock what they can never aspire to,’ said Belash, striding on ahead, his hand on his sword-hilt.

The words cut through Morak’s good humour, and his hatred of the little Nadir welled anew. The Ventrian swung to face the nine men who followed him. ‘Kreeg came to these mountains because he had information that Waylander was here. We’ll split up and quarter the area. In three days we’ll meet at the foot of that peak to the north, where the stream forks. Bans, you go into Kasyra. Ask about Kreeg, who he stayed with, where he drank. Find out where he got his information.’

‘Why me?’ asked the tall, sandy-haired young man. ‘And what happens if you find him while I’m gone? Do I still get a share?’

‘We all get a share,’ promised Morak. ‘If we find him and kill him before you get back I will see that the gold is held for you in Drenan. Can I be fairer than that?’

The man seemed unconvinced, but he nodded and walked away. Morak cast his eyes over the remaining eight men. All were woodsmen and proven warriors, men he had used before, tough and unhindered by morals. He despised them all, but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. No man needed to be wakened by a saw-edged blade rasping across his jugular. But Belash was the only one he hated. The tribesman was fearless and a superb killer with knife or bow. He was worth ten men on a hunt such as this.

One day, though, Morak thought with grim relish, one day I will kill you. I will slide a blade into that flat belly, and rip out your entrails.

Organising the men in pairs he issued his instructions. ‘If you come upon any dwellings, ask about a tall man and a young daughter. He may not be using the name Dakeyras, so seek out any widower who fits the description. And if you find him make no move. Wait until we are all together. You understand?’

The men nodded solemnly, then departed.

Ten thousand Raq in gold was waiting for the man who killed Waylander, but the money meant little to Morak. He had ten times that amount hidden away with merchants in Mashrapur and Ventria. What mattered was the hunt and the kill - to be the man who slew a legend.

He felt the sharp rise of anticipated pleasure, as he considered all he might do to fill Waylander’s last hours with exquisite pain. There was the girl, of course. He could rape and kill her before Waylander’s eyes. Or torture her. Or give her to the men, to use and abuse. Be calm, he told himself. Let the anticipation build. First you have to find him.

Swinging his leaf-green cloak about his shoulders he walked off in pursuit of Belash. The Nadir had made camp in a sheltered hollow and was kneeling upon his blanket, hands clasped in prayer, several old fingerbones, yellowed and porous, lying before him. Morak sat down on the other side of the fire. What a disgusting practice, he thought, carrying the bones of your father in a bag. Barbarians! Who would ever understand them? Belash finished his prayer and returned the bones to the pouch at his side.

‘Your father have anything interesting to tell you?’ asked Morak, his green eyes alight with amusement.

Belash shook his head. ‘I do not speak with my father,’ he said. ‘He is gone. I speak to the Mountains of the Moon.’

‘Ah yes, the mountains. Do they know where Waylander dwells?’

‘They know only where each Nadir warrior rests.’

‘Lucky them,’ observed Morak.

‘There are some matters you should not mock,’ warned Belash. ‘The mountains house the souls of all Nadir, past and future. And through them, if I am valiant, I will find the home of the man who killed my father. I shall bury my father’s bones in that man’s grave, resting on his chest. And he will serve my father for all time.’

‘Interesting thought,’ said Morak, keeping his voice neutral.

‘You kol-isha think you know everything. You think the world was created for your pleasure, but you do not understand the land. You, you sit there and you breathe air and feel the cold earth beneath you, and you notice nothing. And why? Because you live your lives in cities of stone, building walls to keep at bay the spirit of the land. You see nothing. You hear nothing. You feel nothing.’

I can see the boil starting on your neck, you ignorant savage, thought Morak. And I can smell the stench from your armpits. Aloud he said: ‘And what is the spirit of this land?’

‘It is female,’ answered Belash. ‘Like a mother. She nourishes those who respond to her, giving them strength and pride. Like the old man you killed.’

‘And she talks to you?’

‘No, for I am the enemy of this land. But she lets me know she is there and watching me. And she does not hate me. But she hates you.’

‘Why would that be true?’ asked Morak, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Women have always liked me.’

‘She reads your soul, Morak. And she knows it is full of dark light.’

‘Superstition!’ snapped Morak. ‘There is no woman. There is no force in the world save that which is held in ten thousand sharp swords. Look at Karnak. He ordered the assassination of the great hero Egel, and now he rules in his place, revered, even loved. He is the force in the Drenai world. Does the lady love him?’

Belash shrugged. ‘Karnak is a great man - for all his faults - and he fights for the land, so maybe she does. And no man truly knows whether Karnak ordered Egel’s killing.’

I know, thought Morak, remembering the moment when he stood over the great man’s bed and plunged the dagger into his right eye.

Oh yes, I know.

It was close to midnight when Waylander returned. Angel was sitting beside the fire, Miriel was asleep in the back room. Waylander lifted the lock-bar into place on the iron brackets of the door then undipped the quiver from his belt, laying it on the table beside his ebony crossbow. Angel glanced up. The only light in the room came from the flickering fire, and in its glow Waylander seemed an eldritch figure surrounded by dancing demon shadows.

Silently, Waylander lifted clear his black leather baldric, with its three throwing knives, then untied the two forearm sheaths, placing the weapons upon the table. Two more knives came from hidden scabbards in his knee-length moccasins. At last he walked to the fire and sat down opposite the former gladiator.

Angel sat back, his pale eyes watching the warrior, observing his tension.

‘I see you fought Miriel,’ said Waylander.

‘Not for long.’

‘No. How many times did you knock her down?’

‘Twice.’

Waylander nodded. ‘The tracks were not easy to read. Your footprints were deeper than hers, but they overlaid one another.’

‘How did you know I knocked her down?’

‘The ground was soft, and I found where her elbow struck the earth. You beat her easily.’

‘I defeated thirty-seven opponents in the arena. You think a girl should best me?’

Waylander said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘How good was she?’

Angel shrugged. ‘She would survive against an unskilled swordsman, but the likes of Morak, or Senta? She’d be dead within seconds.’

‘She’s better than me,’ said Waylander. ‘And I would survive against them for longer than that.’

‘She’s better than you when you practise,’ replied Angel. ‘You and I both know the difference between that and the reality of combat. She is too tense. Danyal once told me of the test you set her. You recall?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘Well, were you to try it with Miriel she would fail. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps,’ admitted Waylander. ‘How can I help her?’

‘You can’t.’

‘But you could.’

‘Yes. But why would I?’

Waylander threw a fresh chunk of wood to the coals, remaining silent as the first yellow flames licked at the bark. His dark gaze swung to Angel. ‘I am a rich man, Caridris. I will pay ten thousand in gold.’

‘I notice you don’t live in a palace,’ remarked Angel.

‘I choose to live here. I have merchants looking after my investments. I will give you a letter to one of them in Drenan. He will pay you.’

‘Even after you are dead?’

‘Even then.’

‘I don’t intend to fight for you,’ said Angel. ‘Understand? I will be a tutor to your daughter, but that is all.’

‘I need no one to fight for me,’ snapped Waylander. ‘Not now. Not ever.’

Angel nodded. ‘I accept your offer. I will stay and teach her, but only so long as I believe she is learning. When the day comes - as it will - when I can teach her no more, or she cannot learn, then I leave. Is that agreeable?’

‘It is.’ Waylander rose and moved to the rear wall. Angel watched him press his palm against a flat stone, then reach inside a hidden compartment. Waylander turned and tossed a heavy pouch across the room. Angel caught it, and heard the chink of metal within. ‘There is a part-payment,’ said Waylander.

‘How much?’

‘Fifty gold Raq.’

Td have undertaken the task for this alone. Why pay so much more?’

‘You tell me?’ countered Waylander.

‘You set the price at the same level as the hunt-geld upon you. You are removing temptation from my path.’

“That is true, Caridris. But not the whole truth.’

‘And what is the whole truth?’

‘Danyal was fond of you,’ replied Waylander, rising to his feet. ‘And I wouldn’t want to kill you. Now I’ll bid you goodnight.’

Waylander found sleep elusive, but he lay still, eyes closed, resting his body. Tomorrow he would run again, building his strength and stamina, preparing for the day when the assassins would come.

He was pleased Angel had chosen to stay. He would be good for Miriel, and when the killers finally tracked him down he would ask the gladiator to take the girl to Drenan. Once there she would inherit all his wealth, choose a husband and enjoy a life free from peril.