In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  Doubt followed by panic suddenly flared within her. What if he opened his eyes? He could be angry at her boldness, might think her a whore. Which I am, she thought with a burst of self-disgust. Releasing him, she rolled from the bed. She had bathed the previous night, but somehow the thought of ice-cold water on her skin seemed not only pleasurable but necessary. Moving carefully to avoid waking him, she eased open the bedroom door and crossed the cabin floor.

  Lifting the bar from its brackets, she opened the main door and stepped out into the sunlit clearing before the cabin. The bushes and trees were still silvered with dew, the autumn sunlight weak upon her skin. How could I have acted so? she wondered as she strolled to the stream. Miriel had often dreamed of lovers, but never in her fantasies had they been ugly. Never had they been so old. And she knew she was not in love with the former gladiator. No, she realized, that’s what makes you a whore. You just wanted to rut like an animal.

  Reaching the stream, she sat down on the grass, her feet dangling in the water. Flowing from the high mountains, there were small rafts of ice on the surface, like frozen lilies. And it was cold.

  She heard a movement behind her, but lost in thought, she was not swift enough, and as she rolled to her feet, a man’s hands caught her shoulder, hurling her to the grass. Ramming her elbow sharply back, she connected with his belly. He grunted in pain and sagged across her. The smell of wood smoke, greasy leather, and stale sweat filled her nostrils, and a bearded face fell against her cheek. Twisting, she slammed the heel of her hand against the man’s nose, snapping his head back. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to run, but the man grabbed her ankle, and a second man leapt from hiding. Miriel’s fist cracked against the newcomer’s chin, but his weight carried him forward, and she was knocked to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her.

  “A real hellcat,” grunted the second man, a tall blond forester. “Are you all right, Jonas?”

  The first man struggled to his feet, blood seeping from his nose and streaming into his black beard. “Hold her still, Baris. I’ve just the weapon to bring her to heel.” The balding warrior began to unfasten the thongs of his leggings, moving forward to stand over Miriel.

  “You heard what Morak said. Unharmed,” objected Baris.

  “I’ve never known a woman harmed by it yet,” responded Jonas.

  Miriel, her arms and shoulders pinned, arched her back and then sent her right foot slamming up between the forester’s legs. Jonas grunted and slumped to his knees. Baris slapped her face, grabbed her hair, and hauled her to her feet. “Don’t give up, do you?” he snarled, slapping her again, this time with the back of his hand. Miriel sagged against him.

  “That’s better,” he said. Her head came up sharply, cannoning against his chin. He stumbled back, then drew his knife, his arm arcing back for the throw. Miriel, still half-stunned, threw herself to the right, rolling to her knees. Then she was up and running.

  Another man jumped into her path, but she swerved around him and almost made the clearing before a stone from a sling ricocheted from her temple. Falling to her knees, she tried to crawl into the undergrowth, but the sound of running feet behind her told her she was finished. Her head ached, and her senses swam. Then she heard Angel’s voice.

  “Time to die, my boys.”

  Miriel awoke in her own bed, a water-soaked cloth on her brow, her head throbbing painfully. She tried to sit up but felt giddy and then sick.

  “Lie still,” said Angel. “That was a nasty strike. You’ve a lump the size of a goose egg.”

  “Did you kill them?” she whispered weakly.

  “No. Never seen men run so fast. They sent up a cloud of dust. I have a feeling they knew me; it was very gratifying.”

  Miriel closed her eyes. “Don’t tell my father I went out without weapons.”

  “I won’t, but it was stupid. What were you thinking of, the dream?”

  “No, not the dream. I just … I was just stupid, as you say.”

  “The man who never made a mistake never made anything,” he said.

  “I’m not a man!”

  “I’ve noticed. But I’m sure it holds true for women. Two of the men were bleeding, so I guess you caused them some pain before they downed you. Well done, Miriel.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve praised me. Be careful. It might go to my head.”

  He patted her hand. “I can be a mean whoreson, I know that. But you’re a fine girl—tough, strong, willing. I don’t want to see your spirit broken, but I don’t want to see your body broken, either. And I know only one way to teach. I’m not even sure I know that very well.”

  She tried to smile, but the pain was growing and she felt herself slipping into sleep.

  “Thank you,” she managed to say. “Thank you for being there.”

  From his high study window Dardalion saw the troop of lancers slowly climbing the winding path, twenty-five men in silver armor, cloaked in crimson, riding jet-black horses, whose flanks were armored in chain mail. At their head rode a man Dardalion knew well. Against the sleek, martial perfection of his men Karnak should have looked comical; he was overweight and dressed in clothes of clashing colors: red cloak, orange shirt, green trews tied with blue leggings and below them black riding boots edged with a silver trim. But no one laughed at his eccentric dress, for this was the hero of Dros Purdol, the savior of the Drenai.

  Karnak the one-eyed.

  The man’s physical strength was legendary, but it paled against the colossal power of his personality. With one speech he could turn a motley group of farmers into sword-wielding heroes who would defy an army. Dardalion’s smile faded. Aye, and they would die for him, had died for him in the thousands. They would go on dying for him.

  Vishna entered the study, his spirit voice whispering into Dardalion’s mind. “Will their arrival delay the debate, Father?”

  “No.”

  “Was it wise to instruct Ekodas to argue the cause of right?”

  “Is it the cause of right?” countered Dardalion, speaking aloud and swinging to face the dark-bearded Gothir nobleman.

  “You have always taught me so.”

  “We shall see, my boy. Now go down and escort the Lord Karnak to me. And see that his men are fed, the horses groomed. They have ridden far.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Dardalion returned to the window but did not see the distant mountains or the storm clouds looming in the north. He saw again the cabin on the mountainside, the two frightened children, and the two men who had come to kill them. And he felt the weight of the weapon of death in his hands. He sighed. The cause of right? Only the Source knew.

  He heard the sound of booming laughter from the winding stairs beyond the room and felt the immense physical presence of Karnak even before the man crossed the threshold.

  “Gods, but it is good to see you, old lad!” boomed Karnak, striding across the room and clasping a huge hand to Dardalion’s shoulder. The man’s smile was wide and genuine, and Dardalion returned it.

  “And you, my lord. I see your dress sense is as colorful as ever.”

  “Like it? The cloak is from Mashrapur, the shirt from a little weavery in Drenan.”

  “They suit you well.”

  “By heaven, you are a terrible liar, Dardalion. I expect your soul will burn in hellfire. Now sit you down and let us talk of more important matters.” The Drenai leader moved around the desk to take Dardalion’s chair, leaving the slender abbot to sit opposite him. Karnak unbuckled his sword belt, laying it on the floor beside him, then eased his great bulk into the seat. “Damned uncomfortable furniture,” he said. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes! What can you tell me about the Ventrians?”

  “They will sail within the week, landing at Purdol, Erekban, and the Earis estuary,” answered Dardalion.

  “How many ships?”

  “More than four hundred.”

  “That many, eh? I don’t suppose you’d consider whipping up a storm to sink the bastards?”

&n
bsp; “Even if I could—which I can’t—I would refuse such a request.”

  “Of course,” Karnak said with a wide grin. “Love, peace, the Source, morality, and so on. But there are some who could, yes?”

  “So it is said,” agreed Dardalion, “among the Nadir and the Chiatze. But the Ventrians have their own wizards, sir, and I don’t doubt they’ll be making sacrifices and casting spells to ensure good weather.”

  “Never mind their problems,” snapped Karnak. “Could you locate a demon conjurer for me?”

  Now it was Dardalion who laughed. “You are a wonder, my lord. And I shall do you the kindness of treating that request as a jest.”

  “Which of course it wasn’t,” said Karnak. “Still, you’ve made your point. Now, what of the Gothir?”

  “They have reached agreement with the Sathuli tribes, who will allow an invading force to pass unopposed to occupy the Sentran Plain once the Ventrians have landed. Around ten thousand men.”

  “I knew it!” snapped Karnak, his irritation growing. “Which legions?”

  “The First, Second, and Fifth. Plus two mercenary legions made up of Vagrian refugees.”

  “Wonderful. The Second and the Fifth are not a worry to me: our spies say they are mostly raw recruits with little discipline. But the First are the emperor’s finest, and the Vagrians fight like pain-maddened tigers. Still, I have a week, you say. Much can happen in that time. We’ll see. Tell me of the Sathuli leader.”

  For more than an hour Karnak questioned Dardalion, until, satisfied at last, he rose to leave. Dardalion raised his hand. “There is another matter to be discussed, my lord.”

  “There is?”

  “Yes. Waylander.”

  Karnak’s face darkened. “That is none of your affair, priest. I don’t want you spying on me.”

  “He is my friend, Karnak. And you have ordered his killing.”

  “These are affairs of state, Dardalion. Damn it all, man, he killed the king. There has been a price on his head for years.”

  “But that is not why you hired the Guild, my lord. I know the reason, and it is folly. Worse folly than you know.”

  “Is that so? Explain it to me.”

  “Two years ago, with the army treasury empty and a rebellion on your hands, you received a donation from a merchant in Mashrapur, a man named Gamalian. One hundred thousand in gold. It saved you. Correct?”

  “What of it?”

  “The money came from Waylander. Just as this year’s donation of eighty thousand Raq from the merchant Perlisis came from Waylander. He has been supporting you for years. Without him you would have been finished.”

  Karnak swore and slumped back into his seat, rubbing a massive hand across his face. “I have no choice, Dardalion. Can you not see that? You think I want to see the man killed? You think there is any satisfaction in it for me?”

  “I am sure there is not. But in having him hunted you have unleashed a terrible force. He was living quietly in the mountains, mourning his wife. He was no longer Waylander the Slayer, no longer the man to be feared, but day by day he is becoming Waylander again. And soon he will consider hunting down the man who set the price.”

  “I’d sooner he tried that than the other alternative,” said Karnak wearily. “But I hear what you say, priest, and I will think on it.”

  “Call them off, Karnak,” pleaded Dardalion. “Waylander is a force like no other, almost elemental, like a storm. He may be only one man, but he will not be stopped.”

  “Death can stop any man,” argued Karnak.

  “Remember that, my lord,” advised Dardalion.

  * * *

  It was the dog that found the remains of the old tinker. Waylander had been moving warily through the forest when the hound’s head had lifted, its great black nostrils quivering. Then it had loped off to the left. Waylander had followed and had found the animal tearing rotting meat from the old man’s leg.

  The dog was not the first to have found the body, and the corpse had been badly mauled.

  Waylander made no attempt to call the dog away. There was a time when such a scene would have revolted him, but he had seen too much death since then: his memories were littered with corpses. He recalled his father walking him through the woods near their home in the valley, and they had come across a dead hawk. The child he had been had been saddened by the sight. “That is not the bird,” his father had said. “That is merely the cloak he wore.” The man had pointed up to the sky. “That is where the hawk is, Dakeyras. Flying toward the sun.”

  Old Ralis had gone. What was left was merely food for scavengers, but cold anger flared in Waylander nevertheless. The tinker had been harmless and had always traveled unarmed. There was no need for such senseless torture, but that was Morak’s way. The man loved to inflict pain.

  The tracks were easy to read, and Waylander left the dog to feed and set off in pursuit of the killers. As he walked, he studied the spoor. There had been eleven men in the group, but they had soon split up. He knelt and examined the trail. There had been a meeting. One man—Morak?—had addressed the group, and they had paired and moved off. A single set of prints headed east, perhaps toward Kasyra. The others had moved in different directions. They were quartering the forest, and that meant they did not know about the cabin. The old man had told them nothing.

  Identifying the track of Morak, narrow-toed boots with deep heels, he decided to follow the Ventrian. Morak would not be wandering the forest in the search. He would find a place to wait. Waylander set off once more, moving with care, stopping often to scan the trees and the lines of the hills, keeping always to cover.

  Toward dusk he halted and loaded his crossbow. Ahead of him was a narrow path wending up a gentle rise. The wind had changed, and he smelled wood smoke coming from the southwest. Squatting by a huge, gnarled oak, he waited for the sun to go down, his thoughts somber. These men had come into the forest to kill him. That he understood; this was their chosen occupation. But the torture and murder of the old man had lit a cold fire in Waylander’s heart.

  They would pay for that deed.

  And they would pay in kind.

  A barn owl soared into the night, seeking rodent prey, and a gray fox padded across the path directly in front of the waiting man. But Waylander did not move, and the fox ignored him. Slowly the sun set, and night changed the personality of the forest. The whispering wind became the sibilant, ghostly hiss of a serpent’s breath, the gentle trees stood stark and forbidding, and the moon rose, a quarter full and curved like a Sathuli tulwar, a killer’s moon.

  Waylander eased himself to his feet and removed his cloak, folding it and laying it over a boulder. Then he moved silently up the slope, crossbow in hand. There was a sentry sitting beneath a tall pine. As a safeguard against being surprised he had scattered dry twigs in a wide circle around the base of the tree and was sitting on a fallen log, sword in hand. His hair was pale, almost silver in the moonlight.

  Waylander laid his crossbow on the ground and moved out behind the seated man, his moccasined feet gently brushing aside the twigs. His left hand seized the man’s hair, dragging back his head; his right swept out and across, the black blade slicing the jugular and vocal cords. The sentry’s feet thrashed out, but blood was gouting from his throat and within seconds all movement had ceased. Waylander eased the body to the ground and walked back to where his crossbow lay. The campfire was some thirty paces to the north, and he could see a group of men sitting around it. Moving closer, he counted them. Seven. Three were unaccounted for. Silently he circled the camp, finding two more of the assassins standing guard. Both died before they were even aware of danger.

  Closer to the fire now, Waylander puzzled over the missing man. Was it the one sent toward Kasyra? Or was there a sentry he had not located? He scanned the group by the fire. There was Morak, sitting on the far side, wrapped in a green cloak. But who was missing? Belash! The Nadir knife fighter.

  Keeping low to the ground. Waylander moved into the deeper sh
adows of the forest, stopping only once to smear his face with mud. His clothes were black, and he merged into the darkness. Where in hell’s name was the Nadir? He closed his eyes, letting the soft sounds of the forest sweep over him. Nothing.

  Then he smiled. Why worry about what you cannot control? he thought. Let Belash worry about me! He slid out from his hiding place and angled in toward the camp. A little confusion was called for.

  There was a screen of low bushes to the north of the campsite. Dropping to all fours, Waylander edged closer and then rose, crossbow pointed. The first bolt crashed through a man’s temple, and the second plunged into the heart of a bearded warrior as he leapt to his feet.

  Ducking, Waylander ran to the south and then traversed a slope and moved north once more, coming up to the camp from the opposite side. It was, as he had expected, deserted save for the two corpses. Reloading the crossbow, he squatted down in the shadows and waited. Before long he heard movement to his right. He grinned and dropped to his belly.

  “Any sign of him?” whispered Waylander.

  “No,” came the reply from close by.

  Waylander sent two bolts in the direction of the voice. The thudding of the impacting bolts was followed by a grunt and the sound of a falling body.