In the Realm of the Wolf (30 page)

He cackled and fixed her with a piercing gaze. “Foolish girl! You cannot make up your mind. The young one is witty and handsome, but you know his love is fickle. The older one is like the oak, powerful and enduring, but you feel his lovemaking would lack excitement.”

“If you already know my thoughts, why ask me?”

“It entertains me. Would you like my advice?”

“No.”

“Good. I like a woman who can think for herself.” He sniffed and reached for one of the many clay pots beside the fire, dipping his finger into the contents and scooping pale gray powder into his mouth. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes … yes …” He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Miriel leaned forward. His pupils had all but disappeared and the irises had changed from dark brown to pale blue. “I am Kesa Khan,” he whispered, his voice lighter, friendlier. “And I am Lao Shin, the spirit of the mountains. And I am Wu Deyang, the Traveler. I am He Who Sees All.”

“The powder is narcotic?” Miriel asked softly.

“Of course. It opens the window of worlds. Now listen to me, Drenai girl. You are brave, of that there is no question. But tomorrow the dead will walk again. Do you have the heart to face them?”

She licked her lips. “I am here to help you,” she answered.

“Excellent. No false bravado. I will show you how to armor yourself. I will teach you to summon weapons as you need them. But the greatest weapon you possess is the courage in your heart. Let us hope that the Dragon Shadow has taught you well, for if he has not, you will bed neither of those fine warriors. Your soul will wander the gray paths for eternity.”

“He taught me well,” said Miriel.

“We shall see.”

With the hound loping off ahead, Waylander moved onto the boulder-strewn plain. There were few trees there, and the land sloped gently downward toward a white stone village by a riverbank. A horse pasture was fenced off at the north of the village, and to the south sheep grazed on the last of the autumn grass. It was a small settlement, built without walls, evidence of the long-standing agreement between Gothir and Sathuli. There were no raids there. It struck Waylander as strange that the Gothir could treat the Sathuli so well and the Nadir so badly. Both were nomadic tribes that had moved slowly down from the north and east. Both were warrior races that worshiped different gods from the Gothir, yet they were perceived as opposites. The Sathuli, in Gothir tales, were proud, intelligent, and honorable. The Nadir, by contrast, were seen as base, treacherous, and cunning. All his adult life Waylander had moved among the tribes and could find no evidence to support the Gothir view.

Save, perhaps, for the sheer numbers of Nadir who roamed the steppes. The Sathuli posed no threat, whereas the Nadir, in their millions, were a future enemy to be feared.

He shrugged away such considerations and looked for the hound. It was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and scanned the slopes. There were many boulders, and the dog was probably scratching at a rabbit burrow. Waylander smiled and walked
on. It was cold, the weak sunshine unable to counter the biting wind. He pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his shoulders.

The Sathuli would remember the chase as they sang the songs of passing over the hunters who would not return. He thought back to the boy who had first tried to ambush him and was pleased that he had not killed him. As to the others, well, they had made their choices, and he regretted their deaths not at all.

He could see people moving in the village below, a shepherd with a long crook striding up the hill, a dog at his side; several women at the main well, drawing buckets of cool water; children playing by the horse pasture fence. It was a peaceful scene.

He strode on, the path winding down between two huge boulders that jutted from the earth of the mountainside. In the distance a horse whinnied. He paused. The sound had come from the east. He turned and gazed up at the thin stand of trees on the slope. There were bushes growing there, and he could not see a horse. Flicking back his cloak, he lifted his crossbow, stringing it and sliding two bolts into place. There should be nothing to fear now, he chided himself. The Sathuli were unlikely to venture so far north. But he waited.

Where was Scar?

Moving forward more cautiously, he approached the boulders. A figure stepped into sight, green cloak fluttering in the breeze, a bent bow in his hands. Waylander threw himself to the right as the arrow leapt from the string, slicing past his face. He struck the ground on his shoulder, the impact making his hand contract, loosing the bolts on the crossbow, which hammered into the soft earth of the slope. Rolling to his feet, he drew his saber.

The man in the green cloak hurled aside his bow, drawing his own blade. “This is how it should be, sword to sword,” he said, smiling.

Waylander pulled free the thongs that held his cloak in place, allowing it to drop to the earth. “You would be Morak,” he said softly.

“How gratifying to be recognized,” answered the swords-man,
angling himself toward the waiting Waylander. “I understand you are not at your best with a saber; therefore, I will give you a short lesson before killing you.”

Waylander leapt to the attack. Morak blocked and countered. The ringing of steel on steel echoed on the mountainside, the two sabers shining in the sunlight. Morak, in perfect balance, fended off every attack, his blade licking out to open a shallow cut on Waylander’s cheek. Waylander swayed back and sent a vicious slashing blow toward Morak’s belly. The green-clad swordsman neatly sidestepped it.

“I’d say you were better than average,” he told Waylander. “Your balance is good, but you are a little stiff in the lower back. It affects the lunge.”

Waylander’s hand snapped forward, a black-bladed throwing knife flashing toward Morak’s throat. The assassin’s saber swept up, deflecting the knife, which clattered against one of the boulders.

“Very good,” said Morak. “But you are dealing with a master now, Waylander.”

“Where is my dog?”

“Your dog? How touching! You stand at the point of death, and you are concerned for a flea-bitten hound? I killed it, of course.”

Waylander said nothing. Backing away to more level ground, he watched the swordsman follow. Morak was smiling now, but the smile did not reach the gleaming green eyes.

“I shall kill you with a remarkable lack of speed,” he said. “A few cuts here and there. As the blood runs, so your strength will fail. Do you think you will beg me for life?”

“I would doubt it,” said Waylander.

“All men beg, you know. Even the strongest. It depends only on where the knife enters.” Morak leapt. Waylander’s saber parried the thrust, the blades clashing again and again. A second small cut appeared on Waylander’s forearm. Morak laughed. “There is no panic in you—not yet. I like that. What happened to that daughter of yours? By heavens, I’ll yet enjoy her. Long legs, firm flesh. I’ll make her squeal. Then I’ll open her up from neck to belly!”

Waylander edged back and said nothing.

“Good! Good! I can’t make you angry. That’s rare! I shall enjoy finding your breaking point, Waylander. Will it come when I cut off your fingers? Or will it be when your manhood is sizzling on a fire?”

He lunged again, the blade slicing the leather of Waylander’s tunic shirt just above the left hip. Waylander hurled himself forward, hammering his shoulder into the assassin’s face. Morak fell awkwardly but rolled to his feet before Waylander could bring his sword to bear. The blades clashed again. Waylander aimed a thrust at Morak’s head, but the swordsman swayed aside, blocking the lunge and sending a riposte that flashed past Waylander’s neck. Waylander backed away toward the boulders. Morak attacked, forcing his opponent farther down the trail. Both men were sweating freely despite the cold.

“You are game,” said Morak. “I did not expect you to prove this resilient.”

Waylander lunged. Morak parried, then attacked in a bewildering series of thrusts and cuts that Waylander fought desperately to counter. Twice Morak’s saber pierced the upper chest of Waylander’s tunic, the blade turned aside by the chain-mail shoulder guard. But the older man was tiring, and Morak knew it. He stepped back.

“Would you like a little time to get your breath?” he asked with a mocking grin.

“How did you find me?” said Waylander, grateful for the respite.

“I have friends among the Sathuli. After our … unfortunate … encounter back in the mountains I came here, seeking more warriors. I was with the Lord Sathuli when news of the hunt came in. The Lord Sathuli is most anxious to see you dead. He feels your journey across his lands is an insult to tribal pride. He would have sent more men, but he has other matters on his mind at the moment. Instead he paid me. By the way, would you like to know who hired the Guild to hunt you?”

“I already know,” Waylander told him.

“Oh, how disappointing. Still, I am by nature a kindhearted man, so I will at least give you a little good news before I kill you. Even as we speak the lord protector of the Drenai lies
chained in a Sathuli dungeon, ready to be delivered to the emperor of the Gothir.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Not at all. He was persuaded to meet with the Lord Sathuli in a bid to prevent Gothir troops from crossing tribal lands. He traveled with a small party of loyal soldiers and one rather disloyal officer. His men were slaughtered, and Karnak was taken alive. I saw him myself. It was quite comical. Unusual man—offered me a fortune to help him escape.”

“He obviously doesn’t know you too well,” said Waylander.

“On the contrary, I have worked for him before—many times. He paid me to kill Egel.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Yes, you do—I can see it in your eyes. Ah well, recovered your breath? Good. Then let us see some blood!” Morak advanced, his blade lancing out. Waylander blocked the thrust but was forced back past the jutting boulders. Morak laughed. “The lesson is now over,” he said. “Time for the enjoyment to begin.”

A dark shadow moved behind him, and Waylander saw the hound Scar, pulling himself painfully forward on his front paws, his back legs limp and useless. An arrow had pierced his ribs, and blood was dribbling from the huge jaws. Waylander edged to the left. Morak moved right. He had not seen the dying hound. Waylander leapt forward, sending a wild cut toward Morak’s face. The assassin moved back a step, and Scar’s huge jaws snapped shut on his right calf, the fangs sinking through skin, flesh, and sinew. Morak screamed in pain. Waylander stepped in and rammed his saber into the assassin’s belly, ripping it up through the lungs.

“That’s for the old man you tortured!” hissed Waylander. Twisting the blade he tore it free, disemboweling the swordsman. “And that’s for my dog!”

Morak fell to his knees. “No!” he moaned, then toppled sideways to the earth.

Casting aside his sword, Waylander knelt by the hound, stroking its head. There was nothing he could do to save the beast. The arrow had pierced its spine. But he sat with it, cradling the huge head in his lap, speaking softly, his voice
soothing, until the juddering breathing slowed and finally stopped.

Then he stood, gathered his crossbow, and walked to the stand of trees where Morak had hidden his horse.

14

T
HE WALL
was roughly built but bound with a mortar composed of the volcanic black dust of the mountains. Once tamped down and doused with water, it set to the hardness of granite. From the south the enemy faced a structure ten feet high, but on the defensive side there was a rampart that allowed the defenders to lean out and send volley after volley of arrows into the ranks of the attackers, then duck down out of sight of enemy archers.

So far the wall had held. In several places the Gothir had rolled boulders to the foot of it, trying to find a way to scale the defense, and later the front ranks had carried crudely built ladders. Others had used ropes with iron hooks to gain purchase, but the defenders had fought with tribal ferocity, hacking and killing all who reached the top.

Once the Gothir had almost formed a fighting wedge, six men forcing their way onto the rampart, but Angel, Senta, and Belash had charged into them, and the Gothir warriors had died within moments. Again and again the Gothir army had charged, wave after wave, seeking to overwhelm the Nadir by sheer force of numbers. It had not succeeded.