In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “But when I arrived he was unconscious, having filled his belly with strong wine, trying to erase his grief at the death of his wife. The children were alone. While I was at the cabin, I sensed the imminent arrival of the two men. I could feel their lust for violence and death traveling before them like a red mist. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

  “I did something then that I have always regretted. I took a small double crossbow from the unconscious man and loaded it. Then I stepped out to wait for the killers. During the Vagrian Wars I had killed with the sword, but I had sworn never to take another human life. As I waited, I prayed they would be turned back by the very threat of the bow.

  “But they came on, and they laughed at me, for I was known to them. I was a Source priest, a preacher of love. They mocked me and drew their swords. This bow I held had killed many men, and it had power, dread power, in its ebony stock. The men advanced. My arm came up, and the first bolt flew. The first man died. The second man turned to run. Without thinking, I shot him through the back of the neck. I felt like leaping into the air with joy. I had saved the children. Then the enormity of the deed came home to me, and I fell to my knees, hurling the crossbow from me.

  “At Dros Purdol the first Thirty had fought against demons and the spirits of evil. But none of them—save myself—had ever lifted a sword against a human foe. And they died unresisting when the enemy breached the walls. Yet I, in one moment, had betrayed all we stood for.

  “I had not only taken human life, I had robbed two men of any chance of redemption.

  “I went back in to the children and took them in my arms. My spirit went into both of them, closing the doorways to their talent, robbing them of their Source-given gift so that the Brotherhood would not find them again. I put them in their bed and soothed them to sleep. Then I dragged the bodies from the clearing, burying them in a shallow grave.

  “I have been haunted by that day, and not an hour of my life has passed without my thinking of it. I want none of you to face those regrets. And the surest way I know of avoiding such pain is for each of you to take up the Source staff.” Dardalion sat down, and Ekodas saw that the abbot’s hands were trembling.

  The young priest took a deep breath and rose. “Brothers, there is not a word spoken by the abbot with which I disagree. But that alone does not make his argument true. He spoke of love generating love and hatred breeding more hatred. We all agree with that, and if that was all there was to discuss, there would be no need for me to speak. But it is infinitely more complex. I have been asked to present an argument with which I fundamentally disagree. Is Ekodas right and his argument wrong? Is the argument a good one and Ekodas’ judgment flawed? How can I know? How can any of us know? So let us examine a broader picture.

  “We sit here safe, within a circle of swords held by other men. Recruits at Delnoch, lancers at the Skeln Pass, infantry at Erekban, all preparing to fight and perhaps to die to protect their families, their land, and, yes, all of us. Are they evil? Will the Source deny them the gift of eternity? I would hope not. This world was created by the Source, every animal, every insect, plant, and tree. But for one to live another usually dies. It is the way of all things. When the rose rises up, it blocks the light that feeds the smaller plants, smothering them. For the lion to prosper the deer must die. All the world is in combat.

  “Yes, we sit safe. And why? Because we allow the responsibility—aye, and the sin—to sit with other men.” He paused and stared at the listening priests: proud Vishna, the former Gothir nobleman; the fiery Magnic, whose eyes registered his surprise at the apparent change in the speaker; the slender, witty Palista, who was watching with a look of wry amusement.

  Ekodas smiled. “Ah, my brothers, if the argument were purely that we should become warrior-priests, it would be the more easy to raise moral objections. But that is not the reality. We were gathered here because the Dark Brotherhood is abroad in the world, ready to bring chaos and despair to these and other lands. And we know, through the memories of our father abbot, what these men are capable of. We know that ordinary warriors cannot stand against their vile powers.”

  He paused again and sipped water from his goblet of clay. “The lord abbot talked of slaying the men who came for the children, but what was the alternative? To allow two innocent babes to be sacrificed? Whose purpose would that have served? As for the men and their redemption, who is to say where their souls traveled and what hopes of redemption lie there?

  “No, the abbot has cause to regret only one aspect of that terrible day: the joy he felt at the killings. For that is the central point to this argument. As warrior-priests we must fight—if fight we must—without hatred. We must be defenders of the light.

  “This Source-made world is in delicate balance, and when the scales of evil outweigh those of the good, what should we do? We were given gifts by the Source, gifts that enable us to stand against the Brotherhood. Do we deny those gifts? Many are the men who could take up the staff. Many are the priests who could—and will—journey the world with their gospel of love.

  “But where are the warriors of light who can stand against the Brotherhood? Where are the Source knights who can turn aside the spells of evil?” He spread his hands. “Where, save for here? Not one of us can say with certainty that the path we choose is the right one. But we judge a rose by its bloom and by its fragrance. The Brotherhood seeks to rule and by so doing to usher in a new age of blood. We seek to see men living in peace and harmony, free to love, free to father their sons and daughters, free to sit in the evenings and watch the glory of the sunset, content that evil is far from them.

  “We know where evil lies, and with pure hearts we should stand against it. If it can be turned aside by love, so be it! But if it comes seeking slaughter and pain, then we should meet it with sword and shield. For that is our purpose. For we are the Thirty!” He sat down and closed his eyes, his emotions surging, his thoughts suddenly confused.

  “Let us pray,” said Dardalion, “and then let each man choose his path.”

  For some minutes there was silence, then Ekodas saw Vishna rise and draw his silver sword, laying it on the table before him. Magnic followed, the grating rasp of steel blade on steel scabbard sawing through the silence. One by one the priests drew their swords, until only Dardalion and Ekodas were left. Dardalion waited, and Ekodas smiled thinly. He stood, his eyes locked to the abbot’s level gaze.

  “Did you trick me, Father?” pulsed Ekodas.

  “No, my son. Did you convince yourself?”

  “No, Dardalion. I still believe that to fight evil with its own weapons is folly and will lead merely to more hatred, more death.”

  “Then why did you present the argument with such power?”

  “Because you asked me to. And I owe you everything.”

  “Then take up the staff, my son.”

  “It is too late for that, Father.” Ekodas reached out and curled his fingers around the hilt of the silver longsword. The blade hissed into the air, catching the light from the many lanterns.

  “We are one!” shouted Vishna.

  And thirty swords were raised high, glittering like torches.

  Karnak strode through the cheering troops, smiling and waving. Three times he stopped to exchange a few words with individual soldiers whose names he remembered. It was this common touch that endeared him to the men, and he knew it.

  Behind him walked two officers of his general staff. Gan Asten, a formerly low-ranking officer promoted by Karnak during the civil war, was now one of the most powerful commanders in the Drenai army. Beside him was Dun Galen, nominally Karnak’s aide but in reality the man whose network of spies kept Karnak’s hand on the reins of power.

  Karnak reached the end of the line and stooped to enter the tent. Asten and Galen followed him. The two guards extended their lances across the opening, signaling that the lord protector was not to be disturbed, and the soldiers drifted back to their campfires.

  Inside Karnak’s smile
vanished. “Where in the devil’s name is he?” he snapped.

  The skeletally thin Galen shrugged. “He was in the palace and reportedly told his guards he would be visiting friends. That was the last they saw of him. Later, when his room was searched, they found he had taken several changes of clothing and had also stolen gold from Varachek’s vault—some two hundred Raq. Since then there has been no sign.”

  “He was living in fear of Waylander,” said Asten. “Every sound in the night, every banging shutter.”

  “Waylander is a dead man!” roared Karnak. “Could he not trust me with that? By Shemak’s balls, he’s one man. One!”

  “And still alive,” pointed out Asten.

  “Don’t say it!” stormed Karnak. “I know you advised me against bringing in the Guild, but how in the name of all that’s holy did we arrive at this mess? One girl dies—an accident. And yet it has cost me damn near twenty thousand in gold—money I can ill afford to lose—and seen my son scurrying away like a frightened rabbit!”

  “There is a troop of lancers hunting him even as we speak, sir,” said the black-garbed Galen. “They will bring him in.”

  “I’ll believe that, old lad, when I see it,” grunted Karnak.

  “The Guild has proved a disappointment,” Asten pointed out quietly.

  Karnak grinned. “Well, when the war is over, I’ll close them down and get the money back. One of the advantages of power.” The smile faded. “Three wives, scores of willing women, and what do I get? Bodalen. What did I do to deserve such a son, eh, Asten?”

  Wisely Gan Asten chose not to reply, but Galen stepped in swiftly. “He has many talents, sir. He is highly thought of. He is just young and headstrong. I’m sure he didn’t intend for the girl to die. It was just sport, young men chasing a filly.”

  “Until she fell and broke her neck,” grunted Asten, his florid face expressionless.

  “An accident!” responded Galen, flashing a murderous glance at the general.

  “It wasn’t an accident when they killed her husband.”

  “The man ran at them with a sword. They defended themselves. What else would you expect from Drenai noblemen?”

  “I would not know of the ways of noblemen, Galen. My father was a farmer. But I expect you are correct. When drunken young nobles set off on a quest for rape, one should not be surprised when they turn to murder.”

  “Enough of this,” said Karnak. “What’s past is past. I’d cut off my right arm to bring the girl back, but she’s dead. And her former guardian is alive. Neither of you knows Waylander. I do. You would not want him hunting you—or your sons.”

  “As you said yourself, sir, he is only one man,” said Galen, his voice softening but still sibilant. “And Bodalen is not even in the realm.”

  Karnak sat down on a canvas-covered stool. “I liked Waylander, you know,” he said quietly. “He stood up to me.” He chuckled. “He went into Nadir lands and fought off tribesmen, demonic beasts, and the Vagrian Brotherhood. Amazing!” He glanced up at Galen. “But he has to die. I can’t let him slay my son.”

  “You can rely on me, sir,” answered Galen, bowing deeply.

  Karnak swung to Asten. “What happened with the witch woman, Hewla?”

  “She would not use her powers against Waylander,” answered the general.

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t tell me, sir, but she did say she would consider raising a storm against the Ventrian fleet. I told her no.”

  “No?” raged Karnak, lurching from his seat. “No? There’d better be a damn good reason, Asten.”

  “She wanted a hundred children sacrificed. Something about paying the price for demonic assistance.”

  Karnak swore. “If we lose, there’ll be a lot more than a hundred children suffering. More like ten thousand.”

  “You want me to go back to her?”

  “Of course I don’t want you to go back to her! Damn it, why does the enemy always have more power at his command? I’ll wager the Ventrian king wouldn’t think twice about a few scrawny brats.”

  “We could use captured Sathuli children,” offered Galen. “Make a swift raid into the mountains. After all, they have allied with Gothir against us.”

  Karnak shook his head. “Such an action would sully my reputation, turn the people against me. There’s no way it could be kept secret. No, my friends, I think we’ll have to rely on stout hearts and sharp swords. And luck—let’s not forget that! But in the meantime, find Bodalen.”

  “He probably believes he’s safer in hiding,” said Asten.

  “Find him and convince him otherwise,” ordered Karnak.

  Waylander banked up the fire and settled back against the boulder, watching the sleeping Nadir. Belash had tried to keep up but had fallen several times, vomiting beside the trail. The blows to the head had weakened the warrior, and Waylander had helped him to a sheltered hollow.

  “Your skull may be cracked,” said Waylander as the man lay shivering beside the fire.

  “No.”

  “It’s not made of stone, Belash.”

  “Tomorrow I will be strong,” promised the Nadir. In the dying light of the sun his face was gray, with dark streaks coloring the skin beneath his slanted eyes.

  Waylander touched the man’s throat. The pulse was strong but erratic. “Sleep,” he said, covering the man with his cloak. The flames licked hungrily at the dry wood, and Waylander reached out his hands, enjoying the warmth. The hound lay at his side, huge head on massive paws. Idly Waylander stroked the beast’s ruined ears. A low rumbling growl came from its throat. “Quiet,” said Waylander, smiling. “You know you enjoy it, so stop complaining.”

  He gazed at the sleeping Nadir. I should have killed you, he thought idly, but he did not regret allowing the man to live. There was something about Belash that struck a chord in him. A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. Waylander glanced to his left. Sitting by the fire was a hooded old woman, her face a remarkable picture of ancient decay and ugliness, her teeth rotten, her nose swollen and blue-veined, her eyes rheumy and yellow.

  “You move silently, Hewla,” whispered Waylander.

  “No, I don’t. I move like an old crone with my joints cracking like dry twigs.”

  “I did not hear you.”

  “That’s because I’m not here, child,” she told him, reaching out her hand and thrusting it into the flames, which danced and flickered through suddenly transparent skin and bone. “I am sitting by my own fire, in my own cabin.”

  “What do you require of me?”

  Her eyes glinted with amusement, her mouth forming a parody of a smile. “Not impressed with my magic? How dull. You have no inkling of the concentration needed to produce this image. But do your eyes widen in wonder? Do you sit there, jaw agape in amazement? No. You ask what I require. What makes you think I require anything, child? Perhaps I felt in need of company.”

  “Unlikely,” he said with a wry smile. “But you are welcome whatever. Are you well?”

  “When you are 411 years old, the question is irrelevant. I haven’t been well since the old king’s grandfather was a child. I’m just too stubborn to die.” She glanced at the sleeping Nadir. “He dreams of killing you,” she said.

  He shrugged. “His dreams are his own affair.”

  “You are a strange man, Waylander. Still, the dog likes you.”

  He chuckled. “He’ll make a better friend than most men.”

  “Aye.” The old woman fell silent, but her gaze remained on the black-garbed warrior. “I always liked you, child,” she said softly. “You never feared me. I was sorry to hear of the death of your lady.”

  He looked away. “Life moves on,” he said.

  “Indeed it does. Morak will come again. He is no coward, but he likes to be sure. And Senta is even now approaching your cabin. What will you do?”

  “What do you think?” he countered.

  “You’ll fight them until they kill you. Not the most subtle of plans, is it?”
/>
  “I never was a man suited to subtlety.”

  “Nonsense. It’s just that you have always been a little in love with death. Perhaps it would help to know why they are hunting you.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You won’t know unless I tell you!” she snapped.

  “Then tell me.”

  “Karnak has a son, Bodalen. He is allied to the Brotherhood. He and some friends were riding near a village south of Drenan. They saw a young woman gathering herbs. The men had been drinking, and she aroused their lust. They chased her. She turned and fought, breaking one man’s jaw. Then she ran. Bodalen followed her. As she fled, she glanced back, lost her footing, and fell. She tumbled over the edge of a rock face. Her neck was broken in the fall. Her husband came upon the scene. He was unarmed. The men killed him, leaving him by her body. You hear what I am saying?”

  “I hear, but I don’t know what it has to do with me,” he answered.

  “They were seen riding from the area, and Bodalen was brought to trial. He was sentenced to a year in exile, and Karnak paid a fortune in blood-geld to the dead man’s father.”

  Waylander’s mouth was dry. “Where was the village?”

  “Adderbridge.”

  “Are you saying he killed my Krylla!” hissed Waylander.

  “Yes. Karnak found out that you were her guardian. He fears you will seek Bodalen. This is why the Guild hunts you.”

  Waylander’s mind was reeling, and his unfocused eyes stared into the darkness, memories flooding him with echoes of the past: Krylla and Miriel splashing in the stream by the cabin, laughing and squealing in the sunshine; Krylla’s tears when the pet goose died, her happiness when Nualin proposed; the gaiety of the wedding and the dance that followed it. He saw her smiling face, the twin of Miriel’s, but with a mouth that smiled more easily and a manner that won over every heart. With great effort he forced the memories back and turned his cold eyes on the witch woman’s image.