In the Realm of the Wolf (20 page)

A dark shadow fell across him. Waylander rolled again, but not swiftly enough. A black sword flashed toward his face. The
hound sprang across the fallen man, its great fangs closing on the swordsman’s wrist. Belash took one running step, then launched himself feetfirst at the knight, cannoning the man from his feet. The Nadir landed lightly and hurled himself on the assailant, driving his knife under the chin strap of the black helmet and up into the man’s brain.

The hound’s angry growling panicked the horses. They reared and, save for one gelding, bolted.

Free of the spell, Senta brought up his saber, barely blocking the blade thrusting for his throat. He parried a second cut and, twisting his wrist, sent a vicious return that clanged against the knight’s neck gorget of reinforced chain mail. Senta shoulder-charged the warrior, spinning him from his feet. A second man attacked, but this time Senta swayed aside from the killing thrust and rammed his saber up under the man’s helmet, the point slicing through the soft skin beneath the chin and up through his mouth. The knight fell back. Senta lost hold of the saber and drew his second blade.

Angel, his back to the cabin wall, was battling against two knights, the former gladiator desperately blocking and parrying. Waylander sent a bolt through the thigh of the first assailant. The man grunted in pain and half turned. Angel’s sword smashed against the knight’s helm, cutting through the chin strap. The helm fell loose. Waylander’s sword cleaved the man’s skull. Angel sidestepped a lunge from the second knight, grabbed the man’s arm, and hauled him headfirst into the wall. Dropping to the man’s back, Angel took hold of the helm, dragging it back and sharply to the left. The knight’s neck snapped with a stomach-wrenching crack.

“Look out!” yelled Senta.

Waylander dropped to one knee. A sword blade sliced the air above him. Waylander flung himself backward, hammering into his attacker and hurling the man from his feet. Senta leapt at the man. His opponent reared to his feet, then lunged. Senta swayed aside, ramming his elbow into the man’s helm. The knight staggered. Senta leaned back and kicked out, his booted foot cracking against the knight’s knee. The joint gave way. The knight screamed in pain as he fell. Belash threw himself on the fallen warrior, pulling back the neck guard and driving his knife deep into the knight’s throat.

Miriel, the crossbow loaded once more, stepped from the cabin. The last knight ran to the one horse that had not bolted and leapt for the saddle, grabbing the pommel. The horse reared and began to run, dragging the knight with it. The hound bounded after it. Miriel brought the crossbow to her shoulder and sighted the weapon. The bolt sang clear and flashed across the clearing to punch home into the knight’s helm. For several seconds he clung to the pommel, but as the horse reached the rise, the man’s fingers loosened and he fell to the earth. Instantly the dog was upon him, fangs ripping at the dead man’s throat but unable to pierce the chain mail. Waylander called to the hound, and it loped back across the clearing, standing close, its flanks pressing against Waylander’s leg.

Slowly the swirling dust in the clearing settled back to the earth.

One knight moaned, but Belash sprang upon him, ripping the man’s helmet clear and cutting his throat. Another—the first to attack Senta—reared up and ran for the trees. The hound set off in pursuit, but Waylander called out to it and it paused, staring back at its master.

Miriel slowly turned the winding arms of the crossbow and then, with the weapon strung, walked back into the cabin to fetch a bolt.

“He’s getting away!” shouted Senta.

“I don’t think so,” Waylander said softly.

Miriel reappeared and offered the bow to Waylander. He shook his head. The knight had reached the rise and was scrambling up the slope.

“Allow for the fact that you are shooting uphill,” advised Waylander.

Miriel nodded. The bow came up, and, apparently without sighting, she loosed the bolt. It took the knight low in the back. He arched up, then tumbled down the slope. Belash, his bloody knife in hand, ran across to the fallen man, wrenching off the helm and preparing for the killing thrust.

“Dead!” he called back.

“Nicely done,” said Waylander.

“What in hell’s name were they?” asked Angel.

“The Brotherhood,” Waylander told him. “They have hunted me before. Sorcerous knights.”

Belash strolled back to where the others stood. He glanced at Miriel. “One damn fine archer,” he said. “For a
kol-isha
,” he added after a pause. “I’ll fetch the horses.” Sheathing his knife, he strolled away to the south.

Miriel dropped the crossbow and rubbed her eyes. All around her she could hear the buzzing of angry insects, but she could see nothing. She tried to concentrate on the sounds, separating them.

“…
do that
…
witch
…
powers
…
Brotherhood
…
Kai
…
pain
…
escape
…
Durmast
…
Danyal
…” And she realized she was hearing the fragmented thoughts of the men around her. Belash thought her possessed, and Waylander was reliving his last battle with the Brotherhood, when the giant Durmast had died to save him. Senta was staring at her, his passion aroused.

She felt Angel move behind her, and a wave of emotion swept over her, warm and protective, strong, enduring. His hand touched her shoulder.

“Do not concern yourself. I am not injured,” she said. She felt his confusion, and turned toward him. “You remember my talent, Angel?”

“Yes.”

“It is back!”

“You have very powerful enemies,” Senta said as Waylander retrieved his bolts from the two dead knights.

“I’m still alive,” Waylander pointed out, moving past him and into the cabin, where he slumped down in the wide leather chair. His head was pounding, and he rubbed at his eyes. There was no relief. Miriel joined him.

“Let me help you,” she said softly. Her hand touched his neck. Instantly all pain flowed away from him. He sighed, his dark eyes looking up to meet her gaze.

“You saved us. You destroyed their spell.”

“It broke their concentration when I killed the leader,” she said. She knelt before him, her hands resting on his knees. “Why did you lie to me?” she asked him.

“What lie?” he replied, averting his eyes.

“You said we were going north to escape the assassins.”

“And we are.”

“No. You are seeking Bodalen. Hewla told you where to find him.”

“What else do you know?” he asked wearily.

“Too much,” she answered.

He sighed. “You found your talent. I thought it was gone forever.”

“It was given back to me by the man who stole it. You remember when Mother died and you began to drink strong wine? And how you woke up one morning and there were bloodstains in the clearing and a shallow grave with two corpses? You thought you’d killed them while drunk. You couldn’t remember. You asked Krylla and me about them. We said we didn’t know. And we didn’t. It was your friend Dardalion. The men were coming to capture us, perhaps to kill us, because we had the talent. Dardalion stopped them—killed them with your crossbow.”

“He swore never to kill again,” whispered Waylander.

“He had no choice. You were drunk and unconscious, and the weapon carried so much death and violence that it swamped him.” Waylander hung his head, wishing to hear no more but unwilling to stop her. “He closed off our talent, and he took away the memories of the demons and the man who tried to capture our souls. He did it to protect us.”

“But now you remember it all?”

“Yes.”

“I did my best, Miriel … Do not read my thoughts … my life.”

“It is too late.”

He nodded and stood. “Then do not hold me in too great contempt.”

“Oh, Father!” Stepping forward, she embraced him. “How could I hold you in contempt? I love you. I always have.”

Relief washed over him, and he closed his eyes as he held her. “I wanted you to be happy—like Krylla. I wanted a good life for you.”

“I have had a good life. And I have been happy,” she told him. She drew back from him and smiled, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek. “The packs are ready, and we should move.” She closed her eyes. “Belash has found the horses and will be here soon.”

Taking hold of her shoulders, he drew her to him once more. “You could head south with Angel,” he said. “I have money in Drenan.”

She shook her head. “You need me.”

“I do not want to see you … hurt.”

“Everyone dies, Father,” she said. “But this is no longer just a private war between you and Karnak. I wonder if it ever was.”

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t know yet, but Karnak did not send the Brotherhood. When I killed the last man, he had an image in his mind. He was thinking of a tall man with black hair greased to his skull. Slanted eyes, long robes of dark purple. It was he who sent them. And he is the same man who tried to hurt Krylla and me, the man who summoned the demons.”

“From where did the dark knights come?”

“Dros Delnoch, and before that Gulgothir.”

“Then that is where the answers lie,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed sadly.

Angel watched the Nadir leading the five horses across the clearing. Disgusting little savage, he thought. Everything about Belash sickened him: the slanted soulless eyes, the cruel mouth, the man’s barbaric method of killing. It made Angel’s skin crawl. He glanced north at the distant mountains. Beyond there the Nadir bred like lice, living their short, violent lives engaged in one bloody war after another. There had never been a Nadir poet or artist or sculptor and never would be! What a vile people, thought Angel.

“Uses that knife well,” observed Senta.

“Bastard Nadir,” grunted Angel.

“I thought your first wife was part Nadir?”

“She was not!” snapped Angel. “She was … Chiatze. They’re different. The Nadir are not human. Devils, all of them.”

“Canny fighters, though.”

“Talk about something else!” demanded Angel.

Senta chuckled. “How did you know they were coming? You walked away and fetched your sword from the cabin.”

Angel frowned, then smiled, his mood clearing. “I smelled
horse dung; the breeze was blowing from the south. I thought they might be more assassins. I wish they had been. Shemak’s balls, but I was frightened when that spell fell upon me. I’m still not over it. To just stand, unable to move, while a swordsman approached me …” He shuddered. “It was like my worst nightmare.”

“Not something I’d like to repeat,” agreed Senta. “Waylander said they were the Brotherhood. I thought they were wiped out in the Vagrian Wars.”

Angel’s pale eyes scanned the bodies. “Well, they obviously weren’t.”

“What do you know of them?”

“Precious little. There are legends of a sorcerer who founded the order, but I can’t remember his name or where they began. Ventria, I think. Or was it farther east? They were called the blood knights at one time because of the sacrifices. Or was it the crimson knights?”

“Forget it, Angel. I think ‘precious little’ covered it.”

“I never was much of a history student.”

Belash approached them. “They are the knights of blood,” he said. “The first of their temples was built in Chiatze three hundred years ago, founded by a wizard named Zhi Zhen. They became very powerful and tried to overthrow the emperor. Zhi Zhen was captured after many battles and impaled on a golden spike. But the order did not die out. It spread west. The Vagrian general Kaem used Brotherhood priests at the siege of Purdol. Now they have re-formed in Gothir under a wizard named Zhu Chao.”

“You are well informed,” said Senta.

“One of them killed my father.”

“Well, they can’t be all bad,” said Angel.

Belash stood for a moment, his flat features expressionless, his dark eyes locked to Angel’s face. Then he nodded slowly and walked away.

“That shouldn’t have been said,” chided Senta.

“I don’t like him.”

“That’s no excuse for bad manners, Angel. Insult the living, not the dead.”

“I speak my mind,” muttered Angel, but he knew Senta was right, and the insult left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Why do you hate them so?”

“I witnessed a massacre. Sixty miles north of the Delnoch Pass. My father and I were traveling from Namib. We were in the hills, and we saw the Nadir attack a convoy of wagons. I’ll never forget it. The torture went on long into the night. We slipped away, but die screams followed us. They follow me still.”

“I lived in Gulgothir for a while,” said Senta. “I have relatives there, and we used to ride to the hunt. One day, high summer it was, the hunting party spotted three Nadir boys walking beside a stream. The huntmaster shouted something, and the riders broke into a gallop, spearing two of the boys as they stood there. The third ran. He was chased and cut a score of times, not enough to bring him down but enough to keep him running. Finally he fell to the ground exhausted and, I would guess, dying. The huntsmen, Gothir nobles all, leapt from their horses and hacked him to pieces. Than they cut off his ears for trophies.”

“There is a point to this tale?” inquired Angel.

“Savagery breeds savagery,” said Senta.

“That’s today’s sermon, is it?”

“By heaven, but you are in a foul mood, Angel. I think I’ll leave you to enjoy it alone.”

Angel remained silent as Senta moved back into the cabin.

Soon they would be heading north into Nadir country. Angel’s mouth felt dry, and the flames of fear grew in his belly.

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