“Any more of my habits you’d like to criticize?”
“Too many to mention.”
Angel stood and stretched. The child immediately imitated him. “Stop that!” said Angel, leaning forward, hands on hips. The tiny figure adopted the same stance. Senta’s laughter pealed out. “I’m going to get some sleep,” said Angel, turning his back on the boy and reentering the cave.
Senta remained where he was, listening to the faint sounds of battle. The boy edged closer and snatched the bowl, backing away to the shadows to eat. For a while Senta dozed, then he heard movements on the mountainside. He was instantly awake. Belash climbed to the cave mouth.
“They have pulled back,” he said, squatting down beside the swordsman. “No more now until the dawn, I think.” Senta glanced to where the boy had been, but only the empty bowl remained. “We killed many,” said Belash with grim satisfaction.
“Not enough. There must be more than three thousand of them.”
“Many more,” agreed Belash. “And others are coming. It will take time to kill them all.”
“Ever the optimist.”
“You think we cannot win? You do not understand the Nadir. We are born to fight.”
“I have no doubts concerning the skills of your people, Belash. But this place is ultimately indefensible. How many fighters can you muster?”
“This morning there were 373,” he said, at last.
“And tonight?”
“We lost maybe fifteen.”
“Wounded?”
“Another thirty, but some of these can fight again.”
“How many altogether during the last four days?”
Belash nodded glumly. “I understand what you are saying. We can hold for maybe eight … ten more days. But we will kill many before then.”
“That’s hardly the point, my friend. We must have a secondary line of defense. Farther into the mountains perhaps.”
“There is nowhere.”
“When we rode down here, I saw a valley to the west. Where does it lead?”
“We cannot go there. It is a place of evil and death. I would sooner die here, cleanly and with honor.”
“Fine sentiments, I’m sure, Belash. But I’d as soon not die anywhere quite yet.”
“You do not have to stay,” Belash pointed out.
“True,” agreed Senta, “but as my father so often points out, stupidity does tend to run in our family.”
High above the mountains, linked to the spirit of Kesa Khan, Miriel floated beneath the stars. Below her, on the moonlit plain, were the tents of the Gothir, erected in five lines of twenty, neat and rectangular, evenly spaced. To the south were a score of picket lines where the horses were tethered, and to the east was a latrine pit exactly thirty feet long. One hundred campfires were burning brightly, and sentries patrolled the camp’s perimeter.
“A methodical people,” pulsed the voice of Kesa Khan. “They call themselves civilized because they can build tall castles and pitch their tents with geometric precision, but from here you can see the reality. Ants build in the same way. Are they civilized?”
Miriel said nothing. From that great height she could see both the tiny camp of the Nadir and the might of the Gothir attackers. It was dispiriting. Kesa Khan’s laughter rippled out. “Never concern yourself with despair, Miriel. It it always the weapon of the enemy. Look at them! Even from here you can feel their vanity.”
“How can we defeat them?”
“How can we not?” he countered. “There are millions of us and but a few of them. When the Uniter comes, they will be swept away like grass seeds.”
“I meant now.”
“Ah, the impatience of youth! Let us see what there is to be seen.”
The stars spun, and Miriel found herself looking down at a small campfire in a shallow cave on a mountainside. She saw Waylander sitting hunched before the flames, the hound Scar stretched out beside him. Waylander looked tired, and she sensed his thoughts. He had been hunted but had eluded the trackers, killing several. He was clear of Sathuli lands now and was thinking about stealing a horse from a Gothir town some three leagues to the north.
“A strong man,” said Kesa Khan. “The Dragon Shadow.”
“He is weary,” said Miriel, wishing she could reach out and hug the lonely man by the campfire.
The scene shifted to a city of stone set in the mountains and a deep dungeon where a large man was chained to a dank, wet wall. “You treacherous cur, Galen,” said the prisoner.
A tall, thin warrior in the red cloak of a Drenai lancer stepped forward, taking hold of the prisoner’s hair and wrenching back the head. “Enjoy your insults, you whoreson! Your day is over, and harsh words are all you have now. Yet they will avail you nothing: tomorrow you travel in chains to Gulgothir.”
“I’ll come for you, you bastard!” swore the prisoner. “They won’t hold me!” The thin warrior laughed, then bunched his fist and struck the helpless man three times in the face, splitting his lip. Blood flowed to his chin, and his one pale eye focused on the red-cloaked soldier. “I suppose you’ll tell Asten we were betrayed but you managed to escape?”
“Yes. Then, when the time is right, I’ll kill the peasant. And the Brotherhood will rule in Drenan. How does that make you feel?”
“It should be an interesting meeting. I’d like to be there to see you telling Asten how I was captured.”
“Oh, I shall tell it well. I shall speak of your enormous bravery and how you were slain. It will bring a tear to his eye.”
“Rot in hell!” said the prisoner.
Miriel felt the close presence of Kesa Khan, and the old shaman’s voice whispered into her mind. “You know who this is?”
“No.”
“You are gazing upon Karnak the One-Eyed, lord protector of the Drenai. He does not look mighty now, chained in a Sathuli dungeon. Can you feel his emotions?”
Miriel concentrated, and the warm rush of Karnak’s anger swept over her. “Yes. I can feel it. He is picturing his tormentor being killed by a soldier with red hair.”
“Yes. But there is something else to consider, girl. There is no despair in Karnak, yes? Only anger and the burning desire for revenge. His conceit is colossal, but so is his strength. He has no fear of the chains or the enemies around him. Already he is planning, building his hopes. Such a man can never be discounted.”
“He is a prisoner, unarmed and helpless. What can he do?” asked Miriel.
“Let us return to the mountains. I am tiring. And tomorrow the real enemy will show himself. We must be ready to face the evil they will unleash.” All light faded in an instant, and Miriel opened the eyes of her body and sat up. The fire in the cave had burned low. Kesa Khan added wood to the dying flames and stretched, the bones of his back creaking and cracking. “Aya! Age is no blessing,” he said.
“What is this evil you spoke of?” asked Miriel.
“In a moment, in a moment! I am old, child, and the transition from spirit to flesh takes a little time. Let me gather my thoughts. Talk to me!”
She looked at the wizened old man. “What do you wish me to talk about?”
“Anything!” he snapped. “Life, love, dreams. Tell me which of the two men you wish to bed!”
Miriel reddened. “Such thoughts are not for idle chatter,” she scolded.
He cackled and fixed her with a piercing gaze. “Foolish girl! You cannot make up your mind. The young one is witty and handsome, but you know his love is fickle. The older one is like the oak, powerful and enduring, but you feel his lovemaking would lack excitement.”
“If you already know my thoughts, why ask me?”
“It entertains me. Would you like my advice?”
“No.”
“Good. I like a woman who can think for herself.” He sniffed and reached for one of the many clay pots beside the fire, dipping his finger into the contents and scooping pale gray powder into his mouth. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Yes … yes …” He took a deep brea
th and opened his eyes. Miriel leaned forward. His pupils had all but disappeared and the irises had changed from dark brown to pale blue. “I am Kesa Khan,” he whispered, his voice lighter, friendlier. “And I am Lao Shin, the spirit of the mountains. And I am Wu Deyang, the Traveler. I am He Who Sees All.”
“The powder is narcotic?” Miriel asked softly.
“Of course. It opens the window of worlds. Now listen to me, Drenai girl. You are brave, of that there is no question. But tomorrow the dead will walk again. Do you have the heart to face them?”
She licked her lips. “I am here to help you,” she answered.
“Excellent. No false bravado. I will show you how to armor yourself. I will teach you to summon weapons as you need them. But the greatest weapon you possess is the courage in your heart. Let us hope that the Dragon Shadow has taught you well, for if he has not, you will bed neither of those fine warriors. Your soul will wander the gray paths for eternity.”
“He taught me well,” said Miriel.
“We shall see.”
With the hound loping off ahead, Waylander moved onto the boulder-strewn plain. There were few trees there, and the land sloped gently downward toward a white stone village by a riverbank. A horse pasture was fenced off at the north of the village, and to the south sheep grazed on the last of the autumn grass. It was a small settlement, built without walls, evidence of the long-standing agreement between Gothir and Sathuli. There were no raids there. It struck Waylander as strange that the Gothir could treat the Sathuli so well and the Nadir so badly. Both were nomadic tribes that had moved slowly down from the north and east. Both were warrior races that worshiped different gods from the Gothir, yet they were perceived as opposites. The Sathuli, in Gothir tales, were proud, intelligent, and honorable. The Nadir, by contrast, were seen as base, treacherous, and cunning. All his adult life Waylander had moved among the tribes and could find no evidence to support the Gothir view.
Save, perhaps, for the sheer numbers of Nadir who roamed the steppes. The Sathuli posed no threat, whereas the Nadir, in their millions, were a future enemy to be feared.
He shrugged away such considerations and looked for the hound. It was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and scanned the slopes. There were many boulders, and the dog was probably scratching at a rabbit burrow. Waylander smiled and walked on. It was cold, the weak sunshine unable to counter the biting wind. He pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his shoulders.
The Sathuli would remember the chase as they sang the songs of passing over the hunters who would not return. He thought back to the boy who had first tried to ambush him and was pleased that he had not killed him. As to the others, well, they had made their choices, and he regretted their deaths not at all.
He could see people moving in the village below, a shepherd with a long crook striding up the hill, a dog at his side; several women at the main well, drawing buckets of cool water; children playing by the horse pasture fence. It was a peaceful scene.
He strode on, the path winding down between two huge boulders that jutted from the earth of the mountainside. In the distance a horse whinnied. He paused. The sound had come from the east. He turned and gazed up at the thin stand of trees on the slope. There were bushes growing there, and he could not see a horse. Flicking back his cloak, he lifted his crossbow, stringing it and sliding two bolts into place. There should be nothing to fear now, he chided himself. The Sathuli were unlikely to venture so far north. But he waited.
Where was Scar?
Moving forward more cautiously, he approached the boulders. A figure stepped into sight, green cloak fluttering in the breeze, a bent bow in his hands. Waylander threw himself to the right as the arrow leapt from the string, slicing past his face. He struck the ground on his shoulder, the impact making his hand contract, loosing the bolts on the crossbow, which hammered into the soft earth of the slope. Rolling to his feet, he drew his saber.
The man in the green cloak hurled aside his bow, drawing his own blade. “This is how it should be, sword to sword,” he said, smiling.
Waylander pulled free the thongs that held his cloak in place, allowing it to drop to the earth. “You would be Morak,” he said softly.
“How gratifying to be recognized,” answered the swords-man, angling himself toward the waiting Waylander. “I understand you are not at your best with a saber; therefore, I will give you a short lesson before killing you.”
Waylander leapt to the attack. Morak blocked and countered. The ringing of steel on steel echoed on the mountainside, the two sabers shining in the sunlight. Morak, in perfect balance, fended off every attack, his blade licking out to open a shallow cut on Waylander’s cheek. Waylander swayed back and sent a vicious slashing blow toward Morak’s belly. The green-clad swordsman neatly sidestepped it.
“I’d say you were better than average,” he told Waylander. “Your balance is good, but you are a little stiff in the lower back. It affects the lunge.”
Waylander’s hand snapped forward, a black-bladed throwing knife flashing toward Morak’s throat. The assassin’s saber swept up, deflecting the knife, which clattered against one of the boulders.
“Very good,” said Morak. “But you are dealing with a master now, Waylander.”
“Where is my dog?”
“Your dog? How touching! You stand at the point of death, and you are concerned for a flea-bitten hound? I killed it, of course.”
Waylander said nothing. Backing away to more level ground, he watched the swordsman follow. Morak was smiling now, but the smile did not reach the gleaming green eyes.
“I shall kill you with a remarkable lack of speed,” he said. “A few cuts here and there. As the blood runs, so your strength will fail. Do you think you will beg me for life?”
“I would doubt it,” said Waylander.
“All men beg, you know. Even the strongest. It depends only on where the knife enters.” Morak leapt. Waylander’s saber parried the thrust, the blades clashing again and again. A second small cut appeared on Waylander’s forearm. Morak laughed. “There is no panic in you—not yet. I like that. What happened to that daughter of yours? By heavens, I’ll yet enjoy her. Long legs, firm flesh. I’ll make her squeal. Then I’ll open her up from neck to belly!”
Waylander edged back and said nothing.
“Good! Good! I can’t make you angry. That’s rare! I shall enjoy finding your breaking point, Waylander. Will it come when I cut off your fingers? Or will it be when your manhood is sizzling on a fire?”
He lunged again, the blade slicing the leather of Waylander’s tunic shirt just above the left hip. Waylander hurled himself forward, hammering his shoulder into the assassin’s face. Morak fell awkwardly but rolled to his feet before Waylander could bring his sword to bear. The blades clashed again. Waylander aimed a thrust at Morak’s head, but the swordsman swayed aside, blocking the lunge and sending a riposte that flashed past Waylander’s neck. Waylander backed away toward the boulders. Morak attacked, forcing his opponent farther down the trail. Both men were sweating freely despite the cold.
“You are game,” said Morak. “I did not expect you to prove this resilient.”
Waylander lunged. Morak parried, then attacked in a bewildering series of thrusts and cuts that Waylander fought desperately to counter. Twice Morak’s saber pierced the upper chest of Waylander’s tunic, the blade turned aside by the chain-mail shoulder guard. But the older man was tiring, and Morak knew it. He stepped back.
“Would you like a little time to get your breath?” he asked with a mocking grin.
“How did you find me?” said Waylander, grateful for the respite.
“I have friends among the Sathuli. After our … unfortunate … encounter back in the mountains I came here, seeking more warriors. I was with the Lord Sathuli when news of the hunt came in. The Lord Sathuli is most anxious to see you dead. He feels your journey across his lands is an insult to tribal pride. He would have sent more men, but he has other matters on his mind at
the moment. Instead he paid me. By the way, would you like to know who hired the Guild to hunt you?”
“I already know,” Waylander told him.
“Oh, how disappointing. Still, I am by nature a kindhearted man, so I will at least give you a little good news before I kill you. Even as we speak the lord protector of the Drenai lies chained in a Sathuli dungeon, ready to be delivered to the emperor of the Gothir.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Not at all. He was persuaded to meet with the Lord Sathuli in a bid to prevent Gothir troops from crossing tribal lands. He traveled with a small party of loyal soldiers and one rather disloyal officer. His men were slaughtered, and Karnak was taken alive. I saw him myself. It was quite comical. Unusual man—offered me a fortune to help him escape.”
“He obviously doesn’t know you too well,” said Waylander.
“On the contrary, I have worked for him before—many times. He paid me to kill Egel.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Yes, you do—I can see it in your eyes. Ah well, recovered your breath? Good. Then let us see some blood!” Morak advanced, his blade lancing out. Waylander blocked the thrust but was forced back past the jutting boulders. Morak laughed. “The lesson is now over,” he said. “Time for the enjoyment to begin.”
A dark shadow moved behind him, and Waylander saw the hound Scar, pulling himself painfully forward on his front paws, his back legs limp and useless. An arrow had pierced his ribs, and blood was dribbling from the huge jaws. Waylander edged to the left. Morak moved right. He had not seen the dying hound. Waylander leapt forward, sending a wild cut toward Morak’s face. The assassin moved back a step, and Scar’s huge jaws snapped shut on his right calf, the fangs sinking through skin, flesh, and sinew. Morak screamed in pain. Waylander stepped in and rammed his saber into the assassin’s belly, ripping it up through the lungs.
“That’s for the old man you tortured!” hissed Waylander. Twisting the blade he tore it free, disemboweling the swordsman. “And that’s for my dog!”
Morak fell to his knees. “No!” he moaned, then toppled sideways to the earth.
In the Realm of the Wolf Page 22
