Waylander II:In The Realm Of The Wolf (7 page)

Angel was well satisfied with the day’s training. Miriel had

performed above his expectations, fuelled no doubt by anger at the slap. But Angel cared nothing for the motivation. It was enough that the girl had proved to be a fighter. At least he would have something to work with. Given the time, of course.

Waylander had left just after dawn. ‘I will be back in four days. Perhaps five. Make good use of the time.’

‘You can trust me,’ Angel told him.

Waylander smiled thinly. Try to stop her attacking anyone else. She should be safe then. The Guild has a rule about innocent victims.’

Morak follows no rules, thought Angel, but he said nothing as the tall warrior loped away towards the north.

An hour before dusk Angel called a halt to the work, but was surprised when Miriel announced she was going for a short run. Was it bravado, he wondered? ‘Carry a sword,’ he told her.

‘I have my knives,’ she answered.

‘That’s not what I meant. I want you to carry a sword. To hold it in your hand.’

‘I need this run to loosen my muscles, stretch them out. The sword will hamper me.’

‘I know. Do it anyway.’

She accepted without further argument. Angel returned to the cabin and pulled off his boots. He too was tired, but would be damned before letting the girl know. Two years out of the arena had seen his stamina drain away. He poured himself a drink of water and slumped down in front of the dead fire.

Given a month, possibly two, he could make something of the girl. Increase her speed, lower her reaction time. The side sprints would help with balance, and the work to build her arms and shoulders add power to her lunges and cuts. But the real problem lay within her heart. When angry she was fast but wild, easy meat for the skilled swordsman. When cool her movements were stilted, her attacks easy to read and counter. The end result of any combat, therefore, would be the same.

She had been gone perhaps an hour when he heard her

light footfalls on the hard-packed clay of the clearing. He looked up as she entered, her tunic drenched in perspiration, her face red, her long hair damp. The sword was still in her hand.

‘Did you carry it all the way?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes. That’s what you told me.’

‘You did not drop it on the trail and pick it up on your return?’

‘No!’ she answered, offended.

He believed her, and swore inwardly. ‘Do you always do as you are told?’ he snapped.

‘Yes,’ she told him, simply.

‘Why?’

Throwing the sword to the table top she stood before him, hands on hips. ‘Are you now criticising me for obeying you? What do you want from me?’

He sighed. ‘Merely your best - and you gave that today. Rest now. I will prepare supper.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said sweetly. ‘You are an old man, and you look weary. You sit there and I’ll bring you some food.’

‘I thought we had a truce,’ he said, following her to the kitchen, where she took down a large ham and began to slice it.

“That was yesterday. That was before you set out to cheat my father.’

His face darkened. ‘I have never cheated anyone in my life.’

She swung on him. ‘No? What would you call ten thousand in gold for a few days’ work?’

‘I did not ask for the sum - he offered it. And if you were eavesdropping - a womanly skill, I’ve found - then you will have heard me tell him I’d do it for fifty.’

‘You want cheese with this ham?’ she asked.

‘Yes, and bread. Did you hear what I said?’

‘I heard you, but I don’t believe you. You were trying to force me to fail. Admit it!’

‘Yes, I admit it.’

‘Then that’s all there is to say. There’s your food. When you have finished it, clean your plate. And then do me the

kindness of spending the evening in your room. I’ve had enough of your company today.’

“The training doesn’t stop just because the sun’s gone down,’ he said softly. Today we worked your body. This evening we work your mind. And I will go to my room when it pleases me. What are you going to eat?’

“The same as you.’

‘Do you have any honey?’

‘No.’

‘Dried fruit?’

‘Yes - why?’

‘Eat some. I learnt a long time ago that sweetmeats and cakes sit more easily on a tired stomach. You’ll sleep better and wake more refreshed. And drink a lot of water.’

‘Anything else?’

‘If I think of anything I’ll tell you. Now let us finish this meal and start to work.’

Having finished his meal Angel cleared away the ash of the previous night’s fire, laid fresh kindling, and struck a spark to the tinder. Miriel had eaten in the kitchen, and had then walked through the cabin and out into the night. Angel was angry with himself. You are no teacher, he thought. And the girl was right -he wanted her to quit. But not for the reasons she believed. He sighed and leaned back on his haunches, watching the tiny flames devouring the kindling, feeling the first soft waves of heat from the fire.

He had tried to train the boy, Ranuld, showing him the moves and defences he would need in his new career, but Ranuld had died from a disembowelling cut in his first fight. Then there was Sorrin, tall and athletic, fearless and fast. He had lasted for seven fights - had even become a favourite with the crowd. Senta had killed him - heelspin and reverse thrust to the throat. Good move, beautifully executed. Sorrin was dead before he knew it.

That was the day Angel retired. He had fought a dull Vagrian, whose name he couldn’t recall. The man was tough, but 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 favourite with the crowds. I could have made my fortune by defeating you.’

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

The door opened behind him, and he felt a cold draught. Turning he saw Miriel walking towards 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 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 woollen robe of grey 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 only trained 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 warn 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 that part of the imagination that is fuelled 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 defences. 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 were 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 that 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 fishbones 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.’

Dardalion 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 against 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 judgement. 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 this high window the Abbot could just see the faint grey line of the first wall of the Delnoch fortress. His eyes tracked along the colossal peaks of the mountains, traversing west to east towards 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 was humbled before the walls of Purdol, and the history of the world 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 towards 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 and 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 sabre 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.’

‘That will be all, Vishna,’ said the Abbot, and the tall, white-robed priest bowed and departed. ‘Sit you down,’ Dardalion told his visitor, but the man remained standing, his dark eyes scanning the room, the shelves packed with ancient tomes, the open cupboards bursting with manuscripts and scrolls, the dust-covered rugs and the decaying velvet hangings at the high, arched window. ‘I study here,’ said Dardalion.

The door opened and Magnic entered, bearing a tray on which stood a bottle of wine, two loaves of black bread and a hunk of blue-veined cheese. Placing them on the desk the blond priest bowed and departed.

‘They are nervous of me,’ said Waylander. ‘What have you told them?’

‘I told them not to touch you.’

Waylander chuckled. ‘You don’t change, do you? Still the same priggish, pompous priest.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, that is your affair. I did not come here to criticise you. I came for information.’

‘I can offer you none.’

‘You don’t know yet what I am going to ask. Or do you?’

‘You want to know who hired the assassins and why.’

‘That’s part of it.’

‘What else?’ asked Dardalion, filling two goblets with wine and offering one to his guest. Waylander accepted it, taking the drink with his left hand, politely sipping the contents and then replacing the goblet on the desk top, there to be forgotten. The sound of clashing sword-blades rose up from the courtyard below. Waylander moved to the window and leaned out.

‘Teaching your priests to fight? You do surprise me, Dardalion. I thought you were against such violence.’

‘I am against the violence of evil. What else did you want to know?’

‘I have not heard from Krylla since she moved away. You could . . . use your Talent and tell me if she is well.’

‘No.’

‘That is it? A simple no - not a word of explanation?’

‘I owe you no explanations. I owe you nothing.’

‘That’s true,’ said Waylander coldly. ‘I saved your life, not once but many times, but you owe me nothing. So be it, priest. You are a fine example of religion in action.’

Dardalion reddened. ‘Everything you did was for your own ends. I used all my powers to protect you. I watched my disciples die while I protected you. And yes, for once in your life you did the decent deed. Good for you! You don’t need me, Waylander. You never did. Everything I believe in is mocked by your life. Can you understand that? Your soul is like a blazing torch of dark light, and I need to steel myself to stand in the same room as you, closing off my Talent lest your light corrupt me.’

‘You sound like a windy pig, and your words smell about as fine,’ snapped Waylander. ‘Corrupt you? You think I haven’t seen what you are doing here? You had armour made in Kasyra, and helms bearing runic numbers. Knives, bows, swords. Warrior priests: isn’t that a contradiction, Dardalion? At least my violence is honest. I fight to stay alive. I no longer kill for hire. I have a daughter I am trying to protect. What is your excuse for teaching priests to kill?’

‘You wouldn’t understand!’ hissed the Abbot, aware that his heartbeat was rising and that anger was threatening to engulf him.

‘You are right again, Dardalion. I don’t understand. But then I am not a religious man. I served the Source once, but then He discarded me. Not content with that He killed my wife. Now I see His . . . Abbot, isn’t it? … playing at soldiers. No, I don’t understand. But I understand friendship. I would die for those I love, and if I had a Talent like yours I would not deny it to them. Gods, man, I would not even deny it to a man I disliked.’ Without another word the black-garbed warrior strode from the room.

Dardalion slumped back in his chair, fighting for calm. For some time he prayed. Then he meditated before

praying again. At last he opened his eyes. ‘I wish I could have told you, my friend,’ he whispered. ‘But it would have been too painful for you.’

Dardalion closed his eyes once more and let his spirit free. Passing through flesh and bone as if his body had become water he rose like a swimmer seeking air. High now above the Temple he gazed down on the grey castle and the tall hill upon which it stood, and he saw the town spread out around the foot of the hill, the narrow streets, the wide market square and the bear-pit beyond it, stained with blood. But his spirit eyes sought out the man who had been his friend. He was moving easily down the winding path towards the trees and Dardalion felt his sorrow, and his anger.

And the freedom of the sky could not mask the sadness which swept through the Abbot.

‘You could have told him,’ whispered the voice of Vishna in his mind.

‘The balance is too delicate.’

‘Is he so important, then?’

‘Of himself? No,’ answered Dardalion, ‘but his actions now will change the future of nations - that I know. And I must not - will not - attempt to guide him.’

‘What will he do when he finds out the truth?’

Dardalion shrugged. ‘What he always does, Vishna. He will look for someone to kill. It is his way - a law made of iron. He is not evil, you know, but there is no compromise in him. Kings believe it is their will that guides history. They are wrong. In all great events there are men like Waylander. History may not recall them, but they are there.’ He smiled. ‘Ask any child who won the Vagrian War and they will tell you it was Karnak. But Waylander recovered the Armour of Bronze. Waylander slew the enemy general Kaem.’