In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “Why did you come here, Hewla?” he asked icily.

  “I told you. I like you. Always have.”

  “That may or may not be true. But I ask again. Why did you come?”

  “Hmm, I do so admire you, child. There is no fooling you, is there?” Her malevolent eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Yes, there is more to this than just Bodalen.”

  “I did not doubt it.”

  “Have you heard of Zhu Chao?”

  Waylander shook his head. “Nadir?”

  “No, Chiatze. He is a practitioner of the dark arts. No more than that, though he would no doubt describe himself as a wizard. He is young, not yet sixty, and still has the strength to summon demons to his bidding. He has rebuilt the Brotherhood, and—nominally, mark you!—serves the Gothir emperor.”

  “And Bodalen?”

  “Karnak’s son reveres him. The Brotherhood is behind the coming wars. They have infiltrated many of the noble houses of Ventria, Gothir, and Drenan. They seek to rule, and perhaps they will succeed—who knows?”

  “And you want me to kill Zhu Chao.”

  “Very astute. Yes, I want him dead.”

  “I am no longer an assassin, Hewla. If the man was threatening you, then I would deal with him. But I will not hunt him down for you.”

  “But you will hunt Bodalen,” she whispered.

  “Oh, yes. I will find him. And he will know justice.”

  “Good. You will find him with Zhu Chao,” she said. “And if the little wizard should happen to step into the path of one of your bolts, so be it.”

  “He is in Gulgothir?”

  “Indeed he is. I think he feels safer there. Well. I shall leave you now. It is difficult at my age to hold such a spell.” He said nothing. She shook her head. “Not even a ‘thank you’ for old Hewla?”

  “Why should I thank you?” he answered. “You have brought me only pain.”

  “No, no, child. I have saved your life. Look inside yourself. You no longer wish to wait here and die alongside your lovely Danyal. No. The wolf is back. Waylander lives again.”

  Angry words rose in his throat, but Hewla had vanished.

  7

  MIRIEL’S HEAD WAS aching, but the acute pain of the night before had faded to a dull ache as she rose and dressed, making her way through the cabin to the clearing where Angel was chopping logs. Stripped to the waist, he was swinging the long-handled ax with practiced ease, splitting the wood expertly.

  He stopped as he saw her and thudded the ax into a log, then took up his shirt and strolled toward her. “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

  “I’m ready,” she told him.

  He shook his head. “I think you should rest this morning. Your color is not good.”

  There was a chill in the air, and she shivered. “They will come back,” she said.

  He shrugged. “There’s not a blessed thing we can do about that, Miriel.”

  “Except wait?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You don’t seem concerned.”

  “Oh, but I am. It is just that I learned long ago that there is little point worrying about matters over which you have no control. We could flee, I suppose, but to where? We don’t know where they are and could run straight into them. At least here we have the advantage of home ground. And this is where your father expects to find us. Therefore, we wait.”

  “I could track them,” she offered.

  He shook his head. “Morak wasn’t with them, nor was Belash. I wouldn’t want to track either of them. They would have sentries watching from the high hills or trees. They would see us coming. No, we wait for Waylander.”

  “I don’t like the thought of just sitting,” she said.

  “I know,” he told her, stepping forward and laying his hand on her shoulder. “It is always the hardest part. I was the same when I was waiting for the call into the arena. I could hear the clash of swords outside, smell the sand and the sawdust. I always felt ill.”

  Miriel’s eyes narrowed. “There’s someone coming,” she said.

  He swung, but there was no one in sight. “Where?” She pointed to the south, where a flock of doves had flown up from a tall pine. “It could be your father.”

  “It could,” she agreed, spinning on her heel and walking back into the cabin. Angel stood where he was, one hand on the porch rail, the other resting on the leather-bound hilt of his short sword. Miriel rejoined him, a sword belted to her waist and a baldric of throwing knives hanging from her shoulder.

  A tall man appeared at the edge of the clearing, saw them, and walked down the slope, sunlight glinting in the gold of his hair. He moved with animal grace, arrogantly, like a lord in his domain, thought Miriel, anger flaring. The newcomer was dressed in expensive buckskin that was heavily fringed at the shoulders. He wore two short sabers in black leather scabbards adorned with silver. His leggings were dark brown and were tucked into thigh-length tan cavalry boots that had been folded down, exposing the lining of cream-colored silk.

  Coming closer, he bowed to Miriel, his arm sweeping out in courtly style. “Good morning, Miriel.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet, and the loss is entirely mine.” He smiled as he spoke, and Miriel found herself blushing. “Ah, Angel,” said the newcomer, as if noticing the gladiator for the first time. “The princess and the troll … I feel as if I had stepped into a fable.”

  “Really?” countered Angel. “Seeing you makes me feel I have stepped into something altogether less pleasant.”

  The man chuckled with genuine humor. “I have missed you, old man. Nothing was the same once you left the arena. How is your … shop?”

  “Gone, but then, you knew that.”

  “Yes, come to think of it, someone did mention that to me. I was distressed to hear of it, of course. Well, is no one going to offer breakfast? It’s a long walk from Kasyra.”

  “Who is this … this popinjay?” asked Miriel.

  “Oh, yes, do introduce us, Angel, there’s a good fellow.”

  “This is Senta, one of the hired killers sent to murder your father.”

  “Delicately put,” said Senta. “But it should be pointed out that I am not a bowman, nor am I the kind of assassin who kills from hiding. I am a swordsman, lady, probably the best in the land.”

  Miriel’s fingers closed around the hilt of her sword, but Angel caught her arm. “He may be conceited and self-obsessed, but he is quite right,” he said, his eyes holding to Senta’s gaze. “He is a fine bladesman. So let us stay calm, eh? Prepare some food, Miriel.”

  “For him? No!”

  “Trust me,” he said softly, “and do as I say.”

  Miriel looked into his flint-colored eyes. “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  Her hands were trembling as she carved the cold meat. She felt confused, uncertain. Angel’s strength was prodigious, and she knew he was no coward. So why was he pandering to this man? Was he frightened?

  The two men were sitting at the table when she returned. Senta stood as she entered. “You really are a vision!” he said. Her reply was short and obscene. Senta’s eyes widened. “Such language from a lady.”

  Furious and embarrassed, Miriel laid down the tray of food and bit back an angry retort.

  “Seen anything of Morak?” asked Angel, breaking the bread and passing a section to Senta.

  “Not yet, but I sent him a message. He’s got Belash with him, did you know?”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. What does is that you and Morak do not travel together,” said Angel. “You are two of a kind—the same easy smiles, the same sly wit.”

  “And there the resemblance ends,” said Senta. “His heart is rotten, Angel, and his desires are vile. It hurts me that you would link us so.” He glanced at Miriel. “This is very fine bread. My compliments.”

  Miriel ignored him, but he seemed not to notice. “Lovely area, this,” he went on. “Close to the sea and not yet plagued by peop
le and their filth. One day I must find myself such a home in the mountains.” He looked around. “Well built, too. A lot of love and effort.” His eyes were drawn to the weapons on the wall. “That’s Kreeg’s crossbow, isn’t it? Well, well! His whore was missing him in Kasyra. Something tells me he won’t be going back to her.”

  “He was like you,” Miriel said softly. “He thought it would be easy, but when you face Waylander, the only easy part is the dying.”

  Senta laughed. “Everyone dies, beauty. Everyone. And if he is useful with a sword, it might be me.”

  Now it was Angel who chuckled. “You are a strange man, Senta. What on earth makes you think Waylander will face you blade to blade? You won’t even see him. All you’ll feel is the bolt that cleaves your heart. And you won’t feel that for very long.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be very sporting, would it?” countered Senta, his smile fading.

  “I don’t think he regards this as sport,” said Angel.

  “How disappointing. Perhaps I misjudged him. From all I’ve heard he doesn’t seem to be a coward.” He shrugged. “But then, these stories do tend to become exaggerated, don’t they?”

  “You have a curious sense of what denotes cowardice,” said Miriel. “When a snake comes into the house, a man does not lie down on his belly to fight it fang to fang. He just stamps on its head, then throws the useless carcass out into the night. One does not deal with vermin in the way one deals with men!”

  Senta clapped his hands slowly and theatrically, but anger showed in his blue eyes.

  “Finish your breakfast,” Angel said softly.

  “And then I am to leave, I suppose,” Senta responded, slicing a section of meat and then lancing it with his knife and raising it toward his mouth.

  “No, Senta, then you will die.”

  The knife froze. Senta shook his head. “I’m not being paid to kill you, old man.”

  “Just as well,” said Angel. “You wouldn’t be there to collect it. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  The former gladiator stood and left the room. Senta glanced up at Miriel. “It’s a good breakfast. May I stay on for supper?”

  “Don’t kill him!”

  “What?” Senta seemed genuinely surprised. “I have no choice, beauty. He has challenged me.” He stared at her. “Are you and he …? No, surely not.” He stood. “I’m sorry. Truly. I quite like the old boy.”

  “He’s not that old.”

  “He’s twice my age, Miriel, and as a swordsman that makes him older than the mountains.”

  “If you kill him, you’ll have to kill me. I’ll come for you. I swear it.”

  Senta sighed, then bowed. There was no hint of mockery in his eyes. Swinging on his heel, the assassin stepped out into the light. Angel was standing some thirty feet from the door, sword in hand.

  “Arena rules?” called Senta.

  “As you like.”

  “Are you sure about this, Angel? There is no need for us to fight. And you know well enough you will lose.”

  “Don’t tell me, boy, show me!”

  Senta drew his saber and advanced.

  Waylander emerged from the trees and saw the two swordsmen circling one another.

  “Ho, Angel!” he called. The two warriors paused, glancing up toward him as he made his way down the slope, with the stocky Nadir following. From Ralis’ description, Waylander guessed the swordsman was Senta.

  “Leave him to me!” said Angel as the gap closed.

  “No one fights for me,” replied Waylander, his eyes fixed on Senta, noting the man’s balance and condescending smile. There was no fear there, only cold confidence bordering on the arrogant. Waylander came closer. Still he had not drawn a weapon, and he saw Senta’s eyes glance down at the scab-barded sword. “You are hunting me?” asked Waylander, moving ever closer. Only a few paces separated them.

  “I have a commission from the Guild,” replied Senta, taking a step back.

  Waylander kept moving. Senta was tense now, for Waylander had halted immediately before him. “Arena rules?” inquired the assassin.

  Waylander smiled. His head snapped forward, butting the blond swordsman on the bridge of the nose. Senta staggered back. Waylander stepped in and hammered his elbow into the man’s jaw. Senta hit the ground hard, his sword falling from his fingers. Waylander grabbed the man’s long golden hair, hauling him to his knees. “I don’t duel,” he said, drawing a razor-sharp knife from his baldric.

  “Don’t kill him!” shouted Angel.

  “As you wish,” answered Waylander, releasing his hold on the half-conscious swordsman. Senta slumped back to the ground. Waylander sheathed his knife and walked into the cabin.

  “Welcome back, Father,” said Miriel, stepping into his embrace. His arms swept around her, stroking her back, his face pressed against her hair.

  “We have to leave,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “We’re going north.”

  “What has happened?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “We’ll talk later. Prepare two packs: food for three days, winter clothing. You know what is needed.” She nodded and looked past him. He glanced back to see the Nadir warrior standing in the doorway. “We met in the mountains,” said Waylander. “This is Belash.”

  “But he’s …”

  “Yes, he was. But Morak betrayed him. Left him to die.” Waylander waved the man forward. “This is my daughter, Miriel.”

  Belash’s face showed no expression, but his eyes were drawn to the weapons she wore. The Nadir said nothing but walked into the kitchen, where he helped himself to a hunk of bread and some cheese.

  “Can you trust him?” whispered Miriel.

  Waylander’s smile was broad. “Of course not. But he will be valuable where we are going.”

  “Into Gothir?”

  “Yes.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “There’s a man there I must find. Now prepare the packs.”

  She half turned, then looked back at him. “Why did you spare Senta?”

  He shrugged. “Angel asked me to.”

  “Hardly a good reason.”

  “It’s as good as any other.”

  Miriel walked away. Waylander moved to the dead fire and sat down in the broad leather chair. Angel entered, half carrying Senta. Blood was streaming from the man’s broken nose, and his eyes were swollen half-shut. Angel lowered him to the bench seat at the table. Senta sagged forward, blood dripping to the wood. Angel found a cloth, which he passed to the man. Senta held it to his face.

  Angel moved in close to Waylander and whispered, “Why is Belash still among the living?”

  “A whim,” answered Waylander.

  “Whims like that can kill you. They’re not like people; they’re savages spawned by demons. I think you have made a bad mistake.”

  “I’ve made mistakes before. Time will tell about this one.” He stepped alongside Senta. “Lie back along the bench,” he ordered. “The blood will stop faster that way.”

  “I thank you for your concern,” the swordsman muttered thickly.

  Waylander sat beside him. “Be advised. Do not come against me again.”

  Senta dropped the blood-covered cloth and sniffed loudly. “You taught me a valuable lesson,” he said, forcing a smile. “I shall not forget it.”

  Waylander stood and strode from the cabin. Angel followed him. “You have not asked me why I wanted him alive.”

  “I don’t care,” replied Waylander, kneeling and patting the hound, which had stretched out in the shade. The dog gave a low growl and arched its neck. Waylander rubbed its muzzle. “It is not important, Angel.”

  “It is to me. I am in your debt.”

  “How is Miriel progressing?”

  “Better than she was. And I don’t want your ten thousand.”

  Waylander shrugged. “Take it. I won’t miss it.”

  “That’s not the point, damn you!”

  “Why so angry?”

  “Where
are you going from here?” countered Angel.

  “North.”

  “May I come with you?”

  “Why?” asked Waylander, genuinely surprised.

  “I have nowhere else to go. And I can still train Miriel.”

  Waylander nodded and was silent for several moments. “Did anything happen while I was away—between the two of you, I mean?”

  Angel reddened. “Nothing! Gods, man, my boots are older than her!”

  “She could do worse, Angel. And I must find her a husband.”

  “That won’t take long. She’s a lovely girl, and I guess it will be good to know she’s safe like her sister.”

  “Her sister is dead,” said Waylander, fighting to remain calm, his voice barely above a whisper. Once more Krylla’s face came back to him, and he felt a cold berserk rage building. “That’s why they are hunting me,” he went on. “Karnak’s son killed her. The lord protector paid the assassins because he fears I’ll hunt down the boy.”

  “Gods of mercy! I didn’t know it was Krylla,” said Angel. “There was a trial, but the victim was not even named. Bodalen was exiled for a year.”

  “A harsh punishment indeed.”

  “But you’re not going after him?”

  Waylander took a deep calming breath. “I am heading north,” he answered. “Traveling to Gothir.”

  “It’s probably wise,” agreed Angel. “You cannot go against the whole Drenai army. But you do surprise me. I thought you would have put vengeance above everything else.”

  “Perhaps age is making me mellow.”

  Angel grinned. “You didn’t look too mellow when you downed Senta. And where in hell’s name did you find that dog? It’s the ugliest beast I’ve ever seen. Look at those scars!”

  “Bear fighter,” said Waylander. “Retired, just like you.”

  Senta, his nose swollen and his nostrils stained with blood, moved out into the sunlight just as Angel knelt to pet the dog.

  “You know, Angel,” said the swordsman, “the resemblance is striking. If your own mother were to appear in our midst, she wouldn’t know which of you to call in for dinner.”