In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  He felt the first loosening of his hold on his body, as if he were floating in the warm waters of the womb. He was safe there, content. Feeling drifted back to him, his spine against the hard wood of the chair, his sandaled feet on the cold floor. No, no, he chided himself. You are losing it! His concentration deepened once more, but he could not soar.

  Dardalion’s voice whispered into his mind. “Take my hand, Ekodas.”

  A light shone golden and warming, and Ekodas accepted the merging. The release was instant, and his spirit broke clear of the temple of his body, soaring up through the second temple of stone to float high in the night sky above the land of Drenai.

  “Why is it so difficult for me?” he asked the abbot.

  Dardalion, young again, his face unlined, reached out and touched his pupil’s shoulder. “Doubts are fears, my boy. And dreams of the flesh. Small guilts, meaningless but worrisome.”

  “Where are we going, Father?”

  “Follow and observe.” East they flew, across the glittering, star-dappled Ventrian Sea. A storm raged there, and far below a tiny trireme battled the elements, great waves washing over her flat decks. Ekodas saw a sailor swept overboard, watched him fall below the waves, saw the gleaming spark of his soul float up and vanish.

  The land appeared dark below them, the mountains and plains of Ventria stretching to the east, while on the coast brightly lit towns and ports shone like jewels on a cloak of black. Dardalion flew down, down … The two priests hovered some hundred feet in the air, and Ekodas saw the scores of ships harbored there, heard the pounding of the armorers’ hammers in the town.

  “The Ventrian battle fleet,” said Dardalion. “It will sail within the week. They will attack Purdol, Erekban, and Lentrum, landing armies to invade Drenan. War and devastation.”

  He flew on, crossing the high mountains and swooping down over a city of marble, its houses laid out in a grid pattern of wide avenues and cluttered streets. There was a palace on the highest hill, surrounded by high walls manned by many sentries in gold-embossed armor of white and silver. Dardalion flew into the palace, through the walls and drapes of silk and velvet, coming at last to a bedchamber where a dark-bearded man lay sleeping. Above the man hovered his spirit, formless and vague, unaware and unknowing.

  “We could stop the war now,” said Dardalion, a silver sword appearing in his hand. “I could slay this man’s soul. Then thousands of Drenai farmers and soldiers, women and children, would be safe.”

  “No!” exclaimed Ekodas, swiftly moving between the abbot and the formless spirit of the Ventrian king.

  “Did you think I would?” Dardalion asked sadly.

  “I … I am sorry, Father. I saw the sword and …” His voice trailed away.

  “I am no murderer, Ekodas. And I do not know the complete will of the Source. No man does. No man ever will, though there are many who claim such knowledge. Take my hand, my son.” The walls of the palace vanished, and with bewildering speed the two spirits crossed the sea once more, this time heading northeast. Colors flashed before Ekodas’ eyes. If not for the firm grip of Dardalion’s hand, he would have been lost in the swirling lights. Their speed slowed, and Ekodas blinked, trying to adjust his mind.

  Below him was another city with more palaces of marble. A huge amphitheater to the west and a massive stadium for chariot races at the center marked it as Gulgothir, the capital of the Gothir empire.

  “What are we here to see, Father?” asked Ekodas.

  “Two men,” answered Dardalion. “We have crossed the gates of time to be here. The scene you are about to witness happened five days ago.”

  Still holding to the young priest’s hand, Dardalion floated down over the high palace walls and into a narrow room behind the throne hall. The Gothir emperor was seated on a silk-covered divan. He was a young man, no more than twenty, with large protruding eyes and a receding chin that was partly hidden by a wispy beard. Before him, seated on a low stool, was a second man, dressed in long dark robes of shining silk embroidered with silver. His hair was dark and waxed flat to his skull, the sideburns unnaturally long and braided, hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were slanted beneath high flared brows; his mouth was a thin line.

  “You say the empire is in danger, Zhu Chao,” spoke the emperor, his voice deep, resonant, and strong, belying the weakness of his appearance.

  “It is, sire. Unless you take action, your descendants will be overthrown, your cities vanquished. I have read the omens. The Nadir wait only for the day of the Uniter. And he is coming from among the Wolfshead.”

  “And how can I change this?”

  “If wolves are killing one’s sheep, one kills the wolves.”

  “You are talking of an entire tribe among the Nadir.”

  “Indeed, sire. Eight hundred forty-four savages. They are not people as you and I understand the term. Their lives are meaningless, but their future sons could see an end to Gothir civilization.”

  The emperor nodded. “It will take time to gather sufficient men for the task. As you know, the Ventrians are about to invade the lands of the Drenai, and I have plans of my own.”

  “I understand that, sire. You will wish to reclaim the Sentran Plain as part of Gothir, which is only just and right, but that will take no more than ten thousand men. You have ten times that many under your command.”

  “And I need them, wizard. There are always those who seek the overthrow of monarchs. I can spare you five thousand for this small task. In one month you will have the massacre you desire.”

  “You misjudge me, sire,” put in Zhu Chao, bowing deeply and spreading his hands like a supplicant. “I am thinking only of the future good of Gothir.”

  “Oh, I believe in the prophecy, wizard. I have had other sorcerers and several shamans telling me similar stories, though none named a single tribe. But you have other reasons for wanting the Wolves destroyed, or you would have traced the line of this Uniter back to one named man. Then the task would have been made so much more simple: one knife in the night. Never take me for a fool, Zhu Chao. You want them all dead for your own reasons.”

  “You are all-wise, sire, and all-knowing,” whispered the wizard, falling to his knees and touching his forehead to the floor.

  “No, I am not. And knowing that is my strength. But I will give you the deaths you desire. You have been a good servant to me and never played me false. And as you say, they are only Nadir. It will sharpen the troops, give a cutting edge to the soldiers before the invasion of Drenan. I take it you will send your Brotherhood knights into the fray?”

  “Of course, sire. They will be needed to combat the evil powers of Kesa Khan.”

  The scene faded, and Ekodas felt again the warm prison of his body. He opened his eyes to find Dardalion staring at him. “Am I supposed to have learned something, Father Abbot? I saw only evil men, proud and ruthless. The world is full of such.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Dardalion. “And were we to spend our lives traveling the earth and slaying such men, there would still be more of them at the end of our journey than there were at the beginning.”

  “But surely that is my argument, Lord Abbot,” said Ekodas, surprised.

  “Exactly. That is what you must consider. I appreciate your argument and accept the premise on which it is made, yet I still believe in the cause of the Thirty. I still believe we must be a temple of swords. What I would like you to do, Ekodas, is to lead the debate tomorrow evening. I will present your arguments as if they were my own. You will deliver mine.”

  “But … that makes no sense, Father. I do not even begin to understand your cause.”

  “Do the best that you can. I will make this debate an open vote. The future of the Thirty will depend on the outcome. I will do my utmost to sway our brothers to your argument. You must do no less. If I win, then the swords and armor will be returned to the storerooms and we will continue as an order of prayer. If you win, we will await the guidance of the Source and ride to our destiny.”


  “Why can I not argue my own beliefs?”

  “You believe I will do them less than justice?”

  “No, of course not, but …”

  “Then it is settled.”

  5

  MORAK LISTENED to the reports as the hunters came in, his irritation growing. Nowhere was there any sign of Waylander, and the man Dakeyras had proved to be a balding redhead with a face that looked as if it had seen a stampede of oxen from underneath.

  I hate forests, thought Morak, sitting with his back to the trunk of a willow, his green cloak wrapped tightly around him. I hate the smell of mold, the cold winds, the mud and the slime. He glanced at Belash, sitting apart from the others, sharpening his knife with long sweeping strokes. The grating noise of the whetstone added to Morak’s ill humor.

  “Well, somebody killed Kreeg,” he said at last. “Somebody put a knife or an arrow through his eye.” No one spoke. They had found the body the previous day, wedged in the reeds of the River Earis.

  “Could have been robbers,” said Wardal, a tall, thin bowman from the Forest of Graven, far to the south.

  “Robbers?” sneered Morak. “Hell’s teeth! I’ve had lice with more brains than you! If it was robbers, don’t you think a fighter like Kreeg would have had more wounds? Don’t you think there would have been a fight? Someone very skillful sent a missile through his eyeball. A man with rare talent is killed; that suggests to me he was slain by someone with more talent. Is my reasoning getting through to you?”

  “You think it was Waylander,” muttered Wardal.

  “A giant leap of the imagination. Many congratulations. The question is, Where in hell’s name is he?”

  “Why should he be easy to find?” Belash asked suddenly. “He knows we are here.”

  “And what mighty spark of logic leads you to that conclusion?”

  “He killed Kreeg. He knows.”

  Morak felt a chill breeze blowing and shivered. “Wardal, you and Tharic take the first watch.”

  “What are we watching for?” inquired Tharic.

  Morak closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Well,” he said at last, “you could be watching for enormous elephants that will trample all over our supplies. But were I you, I would be alert for a tall man, dressed in black, who is rather good at sending sharp objects through eyeballs.” At that moment a tall figure stepped from the undergrowth. Morak’s heart missed a beat, but then he recognized Baris. “The normal procedure is to shout ‘Hallo the camp,’ ” he observed. “You took your time.”

  The blond forester settled down by the fire. “Kasyra is not a small place, but I found the whore Kreeg was living with. She told him about a man called Dakeyras who lives near here. I’ve got directions.”

  “Wrong man,” said Morak. “Wardal and Tharic already met him. What else did you find?”

  “Little of interest,” answered Baris, pulling the remains of a loaf of bread from the pouch at his side. “By the way, how long has Angel been a member of the Guild?”

  “Angel? I’ve not heard that he is,” said Morak. “Why?”

  “He was in Kasyra a week or so back. Tavern keeper recognized him. Senta is there, too. He said to tell you that when he finds your body, he’ll be sure to give it a fine burial.”

  But Morak was not listening. He laughed and shook his head. “Wardal, have you ever been to the arena?”

  “Aye. Saw Senta fight there. Beat a Vagrian called … called …”

  “Never mind! Did you ever see Angel fight?”

  “Oh, yes. Tough. Won some money on him once.”

  “Would you remember his face at all?”

  “Red hair, wasn’t it?” answered Wardal.

  “Correct, numbskull. Red hair. And a face his mother would disown. I wonder if the tiniest thought is trying to make its way through that mass of bone that houses your brain. If it is, do share it with us.”

  Wardal sniffed loudly. “The man at the cabin!”

  “The man who said he was Dakeyras, yes,” said Morak. “It was the right cabin, just the wrong man. Tomorrow you can return there. Take Baris and Tharic. No, that might not be enough. Jonas and Seeris as well. Kill Angel and bring the girl here.”

  “He’s a gladiator,” objected Jonas, a stout balding warrior with a forked beard.

  “I didn’t say fight him,” whispered Morak. “I said kill him.”

  “Wasn’t nothing about no gladiators,” persisted Jonas. “Tracking, you said. Find this Dakeyras. I’ve seen Angel fight as well. Don’t stop, does he? Stick him, cut him, hit him … still keeps going.”

  “Yes, yes, yes! I am sure he would be delighted to know you are among his greatest admirers. But he’s older now. He retired. Just walk in, engage him in conversation, then kill him. If that sounds a little too difficult for you, then head for Kasyra and kiss good-bye any thought of a share in ten thousand gold pieces.”

  “Why don’t you kill him?” asked Jonas. “You’re the swordsman here.”

  “Are you suggesting that I am frightened of him?” countered Morak, his voice ominously low.

  “No, not at all,” answered Jonas, reddening. “We all know how … skilled you are. I just wondered, that’s all.”

  “Have you ever seen the nobles hunt, Jonas?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you noticed how, when chasing boar, they take hounds with them?”

  The man nodded glumly. “Good,” said Morak. “Then take this thought into that pebble-sized brain: I am a hunting noble, and you are my dogs. Is that clear? I am not being paid to kill Angel. I am paying you.”

  “We could always shoot him from a distance, I suppose,” said Jonas. “Wardal’s very good with that bow.”

  “Fine,” muttered Morak. “Just so long as it is done. But bring the girl to me, safe and hearty. You understand? She is the key to Waylander.”

  “That is against Guild rules,” said Belash. “No innocents may be used—”

  “I know the Guild rules!” snapped Morak. “And when I want lessons in proper conduct, I shall be sure to call on you. After all, the Nadir are well known for their rigid observance of civilized behavior.”

  “I know what you want from the girl,” said Belash. “And it is not this key to her father.”

  “A man is entitled to certain pleasures, Belash. They are what make living worthwhile.”

  The Nadir nodded. “I have known some men who share the same … pleasures … as you. When we catch them among the Nadir, we cut off their hands and feet and stake them out over anthills. But then, as you say, we do not understand you civilized people.”

  The face was huge and white as a fish belly, the eye sockets empty, the lids shaped like fangs, clacking as they closed. The mouth was lipless, the tongue enormous and cratered with tiny mouths.

  Miriel took Krylla’s hand, and the children tried to flee, but the demon was faster, stronger. One scaled hand closed on Miriel’s arm, the touch burning.

  “Bring them to me!” came a soft voice, and Miriel saw a man standing close by, his face also pale, his skin scaled like a beautiful albino snake’s. But there was nothing beautiful about the man. Krylla began to cry.

  The monstrous creature that held them leaned over the children, touching the cavernous mouth to Miriel’s face. She felt pain then, terrible pain. And she screamed.

  And screamed …

  “Wake up, girl,” said the demon, his hand once more on her shoulder. Her fingers snaked out, clawing at his face, but he grabbed her wrist. “Stop this. It is me, Angel!”

  Her eyes flared open, and she saw the rafters of the cabin, the light of the moon seeping through the knife-thin gaps in the shutters, felt the rough wool of the blankets on her naked frame. She shuddered and fell back. He stroked her brow, pushing back the sweat-drenched hair. “Just a dream, girl. Just a dream,” he whispered. She said nothing for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. Her mouth was dry, and she sat up, reaching for the goblet of water by her bedside.

  “It was a n
ightmare. Always the same one,” she said between sips. “Krylla and I were being hunted across a dark place, an evil place. Valleys without trees, a sky without sun or moon, gray, soulless.” She shivered. “Demons caught us, and terrible men …”

  “It’s over,” he assured her. “You are awake now.”

  “It’s never over. It’s a dream now, but it wasn’t then.” She shivered again, and he reached out, drawing her to him, his arms on her back, his hand patting her. Lowering her head to his shoulder, she felt better. The remembered cold of the Void was strong in her mind, and the warmth of his skin pushed it back.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “It was after Mother died. We were frightened, Krylla and me. Father was acting strangely, shouting and weeping. We knew nothing about drunken men. And to see Father stumbling and falling was terrifying. Krylla and I used to sit in our room, holding hands. We used to soar our spirits high into the sky. We were free then. Safe—so we thought. But one night, as we played beneath the stars, we realized we were not alone. There were other spirits in the sky with us. They tried to catch us, and we fled. We flew so fast and with such terror in our hearts that we had no idea where we were. But the sky was gray, the land desolate. Then the demons came. Summoned by the men.”

  “But you escaped from them.”

  “Yes. No. Another man appeared, in silver armor. We knew him. He fought the demons, killing them, and brought us home. He was our friend. But he does not appear in my dreams now.”

  “Lie back,” said Angel. “Have a little gentle sleep.”

  “No. I don’t want the dream again.”

  Pulling back the woolen blanket, Angel slid in beside her, resting her head on his shoulder. “No demons, Miriel. I shall be here to bring you back if there are.” Pulling the blanket up around them both, he lay still. She could feel the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart and closed her eyes.

  She slept for a little over an hour and awoke refreshed. Angel was sleeping soundlessly beside her. In the faint light of predawn his ugliness was softened, and she tried to picture him as he had been all those years before when he had brought her the dress. It was almost impossible. Her arm was draped across his chest, and she slowly drew it back, feeling the softness of his skin and the contrasting ridges of hard muscle across his belly. He did not wake, and Miriel felt a powerful awareness of her own nakedness. Her hand slid down, the tips of her fingers brushing over the pelt of tightly curled hair below his navel. He stirred. She halted all movement, aware now of her increased heartbeat. Fear touched her, but it was a delicious fear. There had been village boys who had filled her with longing, had left her dreaming of forbidden trysts. But never had she felt like this, the onset of fear synchronized to her passion. Never had she been so aware of her desires, her needs. His breathing deepened again. Her hand slid down, fingers caressing him, circling him, feeling him quicken and swell.