In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “I will learn,” she promised.

  “I doubt it can be learned. Your father became Waylander because his first family was 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 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 fish bones 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.”

  4

  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 next to 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 judgment. 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 that high window the abbot could just see the faint gray line of the first wall of the Delnoch fortress. His eyes tracked along the colossal peaks of the mountains, traversing west to east toward 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 had been humbled before the walls of Purdol, and the history of the world had 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 toward 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, 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 saber 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 stu
dy 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 criticize 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 desktop, 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 armor 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 above the temple, he gazed down on the gray castle and the tall hill on 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 toward the trees, and Dardalion felt his sorrow and his anger.

  And the freedom of the sky could not mask the sadness that 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 he will tell you it was Karnak. But Waylander recovered the Armor of Bronze. Waylander slew the enemy general Kaem.”

  “He is a man of power,” agreed Vishna. “I could feel that.”

  “He is the deadliest man I ever met. Those hunting him will find the truth of that, I fear.”

  Waylander found his anger hard to control as he followed the winding hill path that led down to the forest. He paused and sat at the edge of the path. Anger blinds, he told himself. Anger dulls the senses! He took a deep, slow breath.

  What did you expect of him?

  More than I received.

  It was galling, for he had loved the priest and admired him: the gentleness of his soul, the bottomless well of forgiveness and understanding he could bring to bear. What changed you, Dardalion? he wondered. But he knew the answer, and it lay upon his heart with all the weight only guilt could muster.

  Ten years earlier he had found the young Dardalion being tortured by robbers. Against his better judgment he had rescued him and in so doing had been drawn into the Vagrian War, helping Danyal and the children, finding the Armor of Bronze, fighting werebeasts and demonic warriors. The priest had changed his life. Dardalion had been pure then, a follower of the Source, unable to fight even in order to survive, unwilling to eat meat. He could not even hate the men who tortured him or the vile enemy that swept across the land, bringing blood and death to thousands.

  Waylander had changed him. With the priest in a trance, his spirit hunted across the Void, Waylander had cut his own arm, holding it above Dardalion’s face. And the blood had splashed to the priest’s cheek, staining his skin and lips, flowing into his mouth. The unconscious Dardalion had reacted violently, his body arching in an almost epileptic spasm.

  And he had killed the demon spirit hunting him.

  To save Dardalion’s life, Waylander had sullied the priest’s soul.

  “You sullied me, too,” whispered Waylander. “You touched me with your purity. You shone a light on the dark places.” Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. From there he could see the town below, the small church a stone’s throw from the bloodstained bear pit, the timber-built homes and stables. He had no wish to journey there. South lay his home; south was where Danyal waited, silent among the flowers and the glittering falls.

  Once he was under cover of the trees, he relaxed a little, feeling the slow, eternal heartbeat of the forest all around him. What did these trees care for the hopes of man? Their spirits were everlasting, born into the leaf, carried back to the ground, merging with the earth, feeding the tree, becoming leaves. An endless passive cycle of birth and rebirth through the eons. No murders there, no guilt. He felt the weight of his weapons and wished he could cast them all aside and walk naked in the forest, the soft earth beneath his feet, the warm sun upon his back.

  A shout of pain came from some way to his left, followed by the sound of cursing. Stepping swiftly, knife in hand, he pushed back a screen of bushes and saw four men standing close to the mouth of a shallow cave some fifty paces awa
y, at the foot of a gentle slope. Three were carrying wooden clubs. The fourth man had a short sword that even at that distance Waylander could see was partly rusted.

  “Bastard damn near took my arm off,” complained a burly balding man, blood dripping from a shallow wound in his forearm.

  “We need a bow or spears,” said another.

  “Leave the beast. It’s a demon,” said a third, backing away, “and it’s dying, anyway.”

  One by one they moved back from the cave mouth, but the last man stopped and threw a large stone into the dark recesses of the cave. A deep growl was heard, and a huge hound appeared in the entrance, blood on its fangs. The men suddenly panicked and ran back up the slope. The first of them, the balding fat man with the injured arm, saw Waylander standing there and paused.

  “Don’t go down there, friend,” he said. “The dog is a killer.”

  “Rabid?” queried Waylander.

  “Nah. It was one of the pit dogs. There was a bear fight this morning, damn fine one at that. But one of Jezel’s hounds got loose. Worst of them, too, part wolf. We thought the bear had killed it and were hauling the bodies out, but it wasn’t dead. Bastard reared up and tore Jezel’s throat away. Terrible thing. Terrible. Then it ran. The gods alone know how it managed it, ripped up by the bear and all.”

  “Not many dogs would turn on their owners that way,” observed Waylander.

  “Pit dogs will,” said a second man, tall and skeletally thin.

  “It’s the training, you see, the beatings and the starving and the like. Jezel is … was … a damn fine trainer. The best.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” said Waylander.

  “Not at all,” replied the thin man. “You looking for lodgings for the night? I own the inn. We’ve a good room.”

  “Thank you, no. I have no coin.”

  The man’s interest died instantly; with a swift smile he moved past Waylander and, followed by the others, strode off in the direction of the town. Waylander transferred his gaze to the hound, which had slumped exhausted to the grass and was lying on its right side, breathing hoarsely, its blood-covered flanks heaving.