Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf ds-5

by David A. Gemmell

  Reaching out he touched the cold, rectangular marble head-stone, his index finger tracing the carved lines.

  Danyal, wife of Dakeyras, the pebble in the moonlight

  The grave was shaded by elms and beech, and there were roses growing close by, huge yellow blooms filling the air with sweet fragrance. He had bought them in Kasyra, seven bushes. Three had died as he journeyed back, but the remainder flourished in the rich clay soil.

  'I'm going to have to take her to the city soon,' he said. 'She's eighteen now, and she needs to learn. I'll find a husband for her.' He sighed. 'It means leaving you for a while. I'm not looking forward to that.'

  The silence grew, even the wind in the leaves dying down. His dark eyes were distant, his memories solemn. Smoothly he rose and, taking up the clay bowl beside the headstone, he moved to the pool, filled the bowl and began to water the roses. Yesterday's rain had been little more than a shower and the roses liked to drink deep.

  * * *

  Kreeg crouched low in the bushes, his crossbow loaded. How easy, he thought, unable to suppress a smile.

  Find Waylander and kill him. He had to admit that the prospect of such a hunt had frightened him. After all, Waylander the Slayer was no mean opponent. When his family were slain by raiders, he roamed the land until he had hunted down every one of the killers. Waylander was a legend among the Guild, a capable swordsman, but a brilliant knife-fighter and a crossbowman without peer. More than this he was said to possess mystical abilities, always sensing when danger was near.

  Kreeg sighted the crossbow at the tall man's back. Mystical abilities? Pah. In one heartbeat he would be dead.

  The man at the graveside picked up a clay bowl and moved towards the pool. Kreeg shifted his aim, but his intended victim crouched down, filling the bowl. Kreeg lowered his bow a fraction, slowly letting out his held breath. Waylander was side-on now, and a sure killing shot would have to be to the head. What was he doing with the water? Kreeg watched the tall man kneel by the roses, tipping the bowl and splashing the contents around the roots. He'll go back to the grave, thought Kreeg. And once there I'll take him.

  So much in life depended on luck. When the kill order came to the Guild, Kreeg had been out of money and living off a whore in Kasyra, the gold he had earned from killing the Ventrian merchant long since vanished in the gambling dens of the city's south side. Now Kreeg blessed the bad luck that had dogged him in Kasyra. For all life, he knew, was a circle. And it was in Kasyra that he had heard of the hermit in the mountains, the tall widower with the shy daughter. He thought of the message from the Guild.

  Seek out a man named Dakeyras. He has a wife Danyal and a daughter Miriel. The man has black and silver hair, dark eyes, and is tall, close to fifty years of age. He will be carrying a small double crossbow of ebony and bronze. Kill him and bring the crossbow to Drenan as proof of success. Move with care. The man is Waylander. Ten thousand in gold is waiting.

  In Kasyra Kreeg had despaired of earning such a fabulous sum. Then – blessed be the gods – he had told the whore of the hunt.

  'There's a man with a daughter called Miriel who lives in the mountains to the north,' she said. 'I've not seen him, but I met his daughters years ago at the Priests' School. We learned our letters there.'

  'Do you remember the mother's name?'

  'I think it was something like Daneel. . . Donalia . . .'

  'Danyal?' he whispered, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling from his lean, scarred body.

  'That's it,' she said.

  Kreeg's mouth had gone dry, his heart palpitating. Ten thousand! But Waylander? What chance would Kreeg have against such an enemy?

  For almost a week he toured Kasyra, asking about the mountain man. Fat Sheras the miller saw him about twice a year, and remembered the small crossbow.

  'He's very quiet,' said Sheras, 'but I wouldn't like to see his bad side, if you take my meaning. Hard man. Cold eyes. He used to be almost friendly, but then his wife died – five … six years ago. Horse fell, rolled on her. There were two daughters, twins. Good-looking girls. One married a boy from the south and moved away. The other is still with him. Shy child. Too thin for my taste.'

  Goldin the tavern-keeper, a thin-faced refugee from the Gothir lands, also remembered him. 'When the wife was killed he came here for a while and drank his sorrows away. He didn't say much. One night he just collapsed and I left him lying outside the door. His daughters came and helped him home. They were around twelve then. The city elders were talking of removing them from his care. In the end he paid for places at the Priests' School and they lived there for almost three years.'

  Kreeg was uplifted by Goldin's tale. If the great Waylander had taken to drinking heavily then he was no longer to be feared. But his hopes evaporated as the tavern-keeper continued.

  'He's never been popular. Keeps to himself too much,' said Goldin. 'But he killed a rogue bear last year, and that pleased people. The bear slaughtered a young farmer and his family. Dakeyras hunted it down. Amazing! He used a small crossbow. Taric saw it – the bear charged him and he just stood there, then, right at the last moment, as the bear reared up before him he put two bolts up through its open mouth and into the brain. Taric says he's never seen the like. Cold as ice.'

  Kreeg found Taric, a slim blond hostler, working at the Earl's stables.

  'We tracked the beast for three days,' he said, sitting back on a bale of hay and drinking deeply from the leather-bound flask of brandy Kreeg offered him. 'Never saw him break sweat – and he's not a young man. And when the bear reared up he just levelled the bow and loosed. Incredible! There's no fear in the man.'

  'Why were you with him?'

  Taric smiled. 'I was trying to pay court to Miriel, but I got nowhere. Shy, you know. I gave up in the end. And he's a strange one. Not sure I'd want him for a father-in-law. Spends most of his time by his wife's grave.'

  Kreeg's spirits had soared anew. This was what he had been hoping for. Hunting a man through a forest was chancy at best. Knowing his victim's habits made the task slightly less hazardous, but to find there was one place the victim always visited. . . that was a gift from the gods. And a graveside at that. Waylander's mind would be occupied, full of sorrow, perhaps, and fond memories.

  So it had proved. Kreeg, following Taric's directions, had located the waterfall soon after dawn this morning, and found a hiding place which overlooked the headstone. Now all that was left was the killing shot. Kreeg's gaze flickered to the ebony crossbow, still lying on the grass beside the grave.

  Ten thousand in gold! He licked his thin lips and carefully wiped his sweating palm on the leaf-green tunic he wore.

  The tall man walked back to the pool, collecting more water, then crossed to the furthest rose bushes, crouching once more by the roots. Kreeg switched his gaze to the headstone. Forty feet away. At that distance the barbed bolt would punch through Waylander's back, ripping through the lungs and exiting through the chest. Even if he missed the heart his victim would die within minutes, choking on his own blood.

  Kreeg was anxious for the kill to be over and his eyes sought out the tall man.

  He was not in sight.

  Kreeg blinked. The clearing was empty.

  'You missed your chance,' came a cold voice.

  Kreeg swung, trying to bring the crossbow to bear. He had one glimpse of his victim, arm raised, something shining in his hand. The arm swept down. It was as if a bolt of pure sunlight had exploded within Kreeg's skull. There was no pain, no other sensation. He felt the crossbow slipping from his hands, and the world spinning.

  His last thought was about luck.

  It had not changed at all.

  * * *

  Waylander knelt by the body and lifted the ornate cross­bow the man had held. The shoulder-stock of ebony had been expertly crafted, and embossed with swirling gold. The bow itself was of steel, most likely Ventrian, for its finish was silky smooth and there was not a blemish to be seen. Putting aside the weapon he returned his sc
rutiny to the corpse. The man was lean and tough, his face hard, the chin square, the mouth thin. Waylander was sure he had never seen him before. Leaning forward he dragged his knife clear of the man's eye-socket, wiping the blade across the grass. Drying the knife against the dead man's tunic he slipped it once more into the black leather sheath strapped to his left forearm.

  A swift search of the man's clothing revealed nothing, save four copper coins and a hidden knife, hanging from a thong at his throat. Taking hold of the leaf-green tunic Waylander hauled the corpse upright, hoisting the body over his right shoulder. Foxes and wolves would fight over the remains, and he wanted no such squabbles near Danyal's grave.

  Slowly he made his way to the second waterfall, hurling the body out over the rim and watching it plummet to the rushing stream below. At first the impact wedged the corpse against two boulders, but slowly the pull of the water exerted itself and Kreeg's lifeless form floated away, face-down towards the distant river. Retrieving his own crossbow, and taking up the assassin's weapon, Waylander made his way back to the cabin.

  Smoke was lazily drifting up from the stone chimney and he paused at the edge of the trees, staring without pleasure at the home he had crafted for Danyal and himself. Built against the base of a rearing cliff, protected from above by an overhang of rock, the log cabin was sixty feet long, with three large, shuttered windows and one door. The ground before it had been cleared of all trees, bushes and boulders, and no one could approach within a hundred feet without being seen.

  The cabin was a fortress, and yet there was beauty also. Danyal had covered the corner joints with mottled stones of red and blue, and planted flowers beneath the windows, roses that climbed and clung to the wooden walls, pink and gold against the harsh, ridged bark.

  Waylander scanned the open ground, searching the tree line for any second assassin who might be hidden. But he could see no one. Carefully keeping to cover he circled the cabin, checking for tracks and finding none, save those made by his own moccasins and Miriel's bare feet. Satisfied at last, he crossed to the cabin and stepped inside. Miriel had prepared a meal of hot oats and wild strawberries, the last of the season. She smiled as he entered, but the smile faded as she saw the crossbow he carried.

  'Where did you find that?' she asked.

  'There was a man hidden near the graveside.'

  'A robber?'

  'I don't believe so. This bow would cost perhaps a hundred gold pieces. It is a beautifully crafted weapon. I think he was an assassin.'

  'Why would he be hunting you?'

  Waylander shrugged. 'There was a time when I had a price on my head. Perhaps I still have. Or maybe I killed his brother, or his father. Who knows? One thing is certain, he can't tell me.'

  She sat down at the long oak table, watching him. 'You are angry,' she said at last.

  'Yes. He shouldn't have got that close. I should have been dead.'

  'What happened?'

  'He was hidden in the undergrowth some forty paces from the graveside, waiting for the killing shot. When I moved to get water for the roses I saw a bird fly down to land in the tree above him, but it veered off at the last moment.'

  'It could have been a fox or any sudden movement,' she pointed out. 'Birds are skittish.'

  'Yes, it could have been,' he agreed. 'But it wasn't. And if he'd had enough confidence to try for a head shot I would now be lying beside Danyal.'

  "Then we've both been lucky today,' she said.

  He nodded, but did not answer, his mind still puzzling over the incident. For ten years they had lived without his past returning to haunt him. In these mountains he was merely the widower Dakeyras. Who, after all this time, would send an assassin after him?

  And how many more would come?

  * * *

  The sun was hanging over the western peaks, a blazing copper disc of fire casting a last, defiant glare over the mountainside. Miriel squinted against the light.

  'It's too bright,' she complained.

  But his hand swept up, the wooden chopping board sailing into the sky. Smoothly she brought the crossbow to her shoulder, her fingers pressing the bronze trigger. The bolt leapt from the weapon, missing the arcing wood by little more than a foot. 'I said it was too bright,' she repeated.

  'Picture failure and it will happen,' he told her sternly, recovering the wooden board.

  'Let me throw it for you, then.'

  'I do not need the practice – you do!'

  'You couldn't hit it, could you? Admit it!'

  He gazed into her sparkling eyes, and noted the sunlight glinting red upon her hair, the bronzed skin of her shoulders. 'You ought to be married,' he said suddenly. 'You are far too beautiful to be stuck on a mountainside with an old man.'

  'Don't try to evade the issue,' she scolded, snatching the board from him and walking back ten paces. He chuckled and shook his head, accepting defeat. Carefully he eased back the steel string of the lower bow arm. The spring-loaded hook clicked and he inserted a short black bolt, gently pressing the notch against the string. Repeating the manoeuvre with the upper bow arm, he adjusted the tension in the curved bronze triggers. The weapon had cost him a small fortune in opals many years ago, but it had been crafted by a master and Waylander had never regretted the purchase.

  He looked up and was about to ask Miriel to throw when she suddenly hurled the board high. The sunlight seared his eyes but he waited until the spinning board reached its highest point. Extending his arm he pressed the first bronze trigger. The bolt flashed through the air, hammering into the board, half splitting it. As it fell he released the second bolt. The board exploded into shards.

  'Horrible man!' she said.

  He made a low bow. 'You should feel privileged,' he told her, holding back his smile. 'I don't usually perform without payment.'

  'Throw again,' she ordered him, restringing the cross­bow.

  'The wood is broken,' he pointed out.

  'Throw the largest piece.'

  Retrieving his bolts he hefted the largest chunk of wood. It was no more than four inches across and less than a foot long. 'Are you ready?'

  'Just throw!'

  With a flick of his wrist he spun the chunk high into the air. The crossbow came up, the bolt sang, plunging into the wood. Waylander applauded the shot. Miriel gave an elaborate bow.

  'Women are supposed to curtsey,' he said.

  'And they are supposed to wear dresses and learn embroidery,' she retorted.

  'True,' he conceded. 'How do you like the assassin's bow?'

  'It has good balance, and it is very light.'

  'Ventrian ebony, and the stock is hollowed. Are you ready for some swordplay?'

  She laughed. 'Is your pride ready for another pounding?'

  'No,' he admitted. 'I think we'll have an early night.' She looked disappointed as they gathered their weapons and set off back to the cabin. 'I think you need a better swordmaster than I,' he told her as they walked. 'It is your best weapon and you are truly skilled. I'll think on it.'

  'I thought you were the best,' she chided.

  'Fathers always seem that way,' he said drily. 'But no. With bow or knife I am superb. With the sword? Only excellent.'

  'And so modest. Is there anything at which you do not excel?'

  'Yes,' he answered, his smile fading.

  Increasing his pace he walked on, his mind lost in painful memories. His first family had been butchered by raiders, his wife, his baby girls and his son. The picture was bright in his mind. He had found the boy lying dead in the flower garden, his little face surrounded by blooms.

  And five years before, having found love a second time, he had watched helplessly as Danyal's horse had struck a hidden tree root. The stallion hit the ground hard, rolling, trapping Danyal beneath it and crushing her chest. She had died within minutes, her body racked with pain.

  'Is there anything at which you do not excel?'

  Only one.

  I cannot keep alive those I love.

  2


  Ralis liked to tell people he had been a tinker since the stars were young, and it was not far from the truth. He could still remember when the old king, Orien, had been but a beardless prince, walking behind his father at the Spring Parade on the first road called the Drenai Way.

  Now it was the Avenue of Kings, and much wider, leading through the triumphal arch built to celebrate victory over the Vagrians.

  So many changes. Ralis had fond memories of Orien, the first Battle King of the Drenai, wearer of the Armour of Bronze, victor in a hundred battles and a score of wars.

  Sometimes, when he was sitting in lonely taverns, resting from his travels, the old tinker would tell people of his meeting with Orien, soon after the Battle at Dros Corteswain. The King had been hunting boar in Skultik Forest and Ralis, young then and dark-bearded, had been carrying his pack towards the fort town of Delnoch.

  They had met at a stream. Orien was sitting on a boulder, his bare feet submerged in the cold water, his expensive boots cast aside. Ralis had released the straps of his pack and moved to the water's edge, kneeling to drink.

  'The pack looks heavy,' said the golden-haired King.

  'Aye, it is,' Ralis had agreed.

  'A tinker, are you?'

  'Aye.'

  'You know who I am?'

  'You're the King,' said Ralis.

  Orien chuckled. 'You're not impressed? Good for you. I don't suppose you have any ointment in that pack. I have blisters the size of small apples.'

  Ralis shook his head and spread his arms apologetically. At that moment a group of young noblemen arrived on the scene, surrounding the King. They were laughing and shouting, bragging of their skills.

  Ralis had left unnoticed.

  As the years passed he followed the King's exploits, almost as if gathering news of an old friend. Yet he doubted if the memory of their meeting had survived for more than a moment or two with the King himself. It was all different now, he thought, as he hitched his pack for the walk up to the cabin. The country had no king – and that wasn't right. The Source would not look kindly upon a country without a prince.