In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  Casting aside his sword, Waylander knelt by the hound, stroking its head. There was nothing he could do to save the beast. The arrow had pierced its spine. But he sat with it, cradling the huge head in his lap, speaking softly, his voice soothing, until the juddering breathing slowed and finally stopped.

  Then he stood, gathered his crossbow, and walked to the stand of trees where Morak had hidden his horse.

  14

  THE WALL was roughly built but bound with a mortar composed of the volcanic black dust of the mountains. Once tamped down and doused with water, it set to the hardness of granite. From the south the enemy faced a structure ten feet high, but on the defensive side there was a rampart that allowed the defenders to lean out and send volley after volley of arrows into the ranks of the attackers, then duck down out of sight of enemy archers.

  So far the wall had held. In several places the Gothir had rolled boulders to the foot of it, trying to find a way to scale the defense, and later the front ranks had carried crudely built ladders. Others had used ropes with iron hooks to gain purchase, but the defenders had fought with tribal ferocity, hacking and killing all who reached the top.

  Once the Gothir had almost formed a fighting wedge, six men forcing their way onto the rampart, but Angel, Senta, and Belash had charged into them, and the Gothir warriors had died within moments. Again and again the Gothir army had charged, wave after wave, seeking to overwhelm the Nadir by sheer force of numbers. It had not succeeded.

  Yet.

  But now something had changed, and each defender felt the stirrings of a terrible fear. Angel noticed it first, a coldness in the pit of the belly. His hands began to tremble. The Nadir warrior alongside him dropped his sword, a low, keening moan coming from his lips. Angel glanced at Senta. The swordsman was leaning on the wall and staring out over the narrows of the pass. The Gothir forces had fallen back, but instead of regrouping they had retreated out of sight. At first the fifty Nadir warriors manning the roughly built wall had jeered and shouted, but now an uncomfortable silence settled on the defenders.

  Angel shivered. The black walls of the mountains loomed around him, and he felt as if he were standing inside the gaping jaws of an enormous monster. The trembling worsened. He tried to sheathe his sword, but it clattered against the scabbard. He swore and laid the blade against the wall.

  Three Nadir warriors turned and ran back up the pass, leaving their weapons behind them. The voice of Belash roared out. The fleeing men halted and turned sheepishly. But the fear was growing.

  Angel made his way to Senta’s side. His legs felt as if they had no strength, and he leaned on the wall for support. “What the devil is happening?” he asked Senta. The other man, his face pale and his eyes wide, did not reply. Movement came from the mouth of the pass. Angel swung his head and saw a line of black-cloaked, black-armored men moving toward the wall.

  “The knights of blood!” whispered Senta, his voice shaking.

  A Nadir beside him cried out and fell back, his bladder loosening, urine soaking his leggings. Angel saw Belash sheathe his sword and snatch a bow from a warrior’s hand. Notching an arrow, the stocky Nadir climbed to the top of the wall and drew back on the string. Angel heard him groan and cry out. Then Belash slowly began to turn.

  Angel hurled himself at Senta, dragging him back just as the arrow was loosed. It flashed past them, ricocheting from a rock and plunging into the shoulder of a crouching warrior.

  Silently the knights of blood advanced.

  The Nadir seemed powerless to stop them. Angel scrambled to his feet and took up his sword. The trembling was so great, he knew he would not be able to use it. The defenders began to stream back from the wall—even Belash.

  A tiny man in ragged clothes moved into sight, Miriel beside him. He was wizened and ancient, but Angel felt a sudden surge of elation cutting through the fear, firing his blood. The Nadir paused in their flight. The little shaman ran to the wall, climbing nimbly to the top. The knights of blood were less than twenty paces from the wall.

  Kesa Khan raised his hands, and flashes of blue fire leapt from palm to palm. Angel felt all fear lifting from him; anger replaced it. The shaman’s hands swept out, bony fingers pointing at the marching black-cloaked warriors. Blue fire lanced into the line, rippling over breastplates and helms. The man at the center of the line stumbled. Blue fire became red as his hair burst into flames. Cloaks and leggings blazed, and the advancing line broke, with men beating at the tongues of flame that were licking at their clothing.

  The Nadir defenders returned to the wall, taking up bow and spear and sending shaft after shaft into the milling men.

  The knights of blood broke and ran.

  The little Nadir leapt down from the wall and walked away without a word.

  Miriel approached Angel. “You should sit down. Your face is the color of snow.”

  “I’ve never known such fear,” he admitted.

  “But you didn’t run,” she pointed out.

  Ignoring the compliment, he gazed after the Nadir shaman. “I take it that was Kesa Khan. He doesn’t waste a lot of time on conversation, does he?”

  She smiled. “He’s a tough old man, but he’s exhausted. That spell will have weakened him more than you could possibly know.”

  Senta joined them. “We can’t hold this place,” he said. “They almost broke through this morning, twice. Only the Source knows how we held them off.”

  A cry went up from one of the defenders. Senta swung to see hundreds of Gothir warriors charging into the pass. Drawing his swords, he ran back to the wall.

  “He’s right,” said Angel. “Talk to the old man! We must find another place.” Then he, too, ran to join the defenders.

  Bodalen followed the torch-carrying Gracus deep into the bowels of the castle, through endless corridors and down stairways of metal. Everything was twisted and unnatural, and a low humming filled the air, causing Bodalen’s head to pound.

  Behind the tall Drenai came the other eight Brotherhood warriors, grim silent men. The ninth had taken the horses into the mountains, and now all hope of fleeing that sorcerous place was gone from Bodalen.

  Down, down they journeyed, through five levels, the humming growing ever more loud. The walls of the castle were no longer of stone but were sleek, shining metal, bulging and cracked in places. Beyond the cracks were wires of copper and iron, gold and silver, wound together, braided.

  Bodalen hated the castle and feared the secrets it might contain. But even through his cowardice his fascination grew. On one level there was a set of steel doors, which Gracus and two other men forced open. Within was a small room. There was no furniture, but one wall carried a small ornament like a carving table; twelve round stones were set in brass, each stone bearing a symbol Bodalen could not decipher.

  There was little of interest except for the ornament, and the warriors moved on, seeking stairs.

  At last they came to a great hall that was lit as if by sunlight, bright and cheerful. Yet there were no windows, and Bodalen knew they were hundreds of feet below the ground. Gracus dropped the sputtering touch to the metal floor and gazed around. There were tables and chairs, all of metal, and huge iron cabinets ornately decorated with bright gems that sparkled, the light dancing from them.

  Panels of opaque glass were set all around the hall, and they glowed with white light. Gracus drew his sword and struck one, which shattered, spilling fragments to the hall floor. Beyond the panel was a long, gleaming cylinder. A second warrior strode forward, thrusting his sword into it. There was a flash, and the knight was lifted from his feet and hurled twenty feet across the floor. Half the lights in the hall dimmed and died.

  Gracus ran to the fallen man, kneeling beside him. “Dead,” he said, rising and turning to the others. “Touch nothing. We will await the master. The spells are mightier than we can understand.”

  Bodalen, the humming so loud that it made him nauseous, moved across the hall to an open doorway. Beyond it he saw a huge crystal,
some three feet in circumference, floating between two golden bowls. Tiny bolts of lightning flickered and shone all around it as it spun. Bodalen stepped into the room. The walls were all of gold, except for the far wall, which had been partly stripped, exposing carved blocks of granite twisted far beyond their original squares.

  But it was not the crystal or the walls of gold that caused the breath to catch in his throat.

  “Gracus!” he shouted. The Brotherhood knight entered the room and gazed down at the immense skeleton stretched out by the far wall.

  “What in the name of hell is it?” whispered Bodalen.

  Gracus shook his head. “Hell is where it came from,” he answered, kneeling beside the two skulls, his fingers tracing the twin lines of vertebrae leading to the massive shoulders. The beast, whatever it was, had boasted three arms, one of which sprouted from below the enormous ribs. One of the knights tried to lift the thighbone, but the rotted sinew held it in place.

  “I cannot even get my hands around this bone,” said the man. “The creature must have been twelve feet tall, maybe more.”

  Bodalen glanced back at the doorway, which was no more than three feet wide and six feet tall. “How did it get in here?” he asked. Gracus moved to the doorway. There were great tears in the metal around the frame, exposing the stone beneath.

  “I don’t know how it got in,” Gracus said softly, “but it tore its fingers to the bone trying to get out. There must be another entrance. Hidden.”

  For some time they searched the walls, seeking a disguised doorway, but there was nothing. Bodalen felt a great weariness settling on him, and his headache worsened. He started for the doorway, but his legs gave way and he slumped to the floor. Fatigue overwhelmed him, and he saw Gracus stumble to his knees before the spinning crystal.

  “We must … get out,” said Bodalen, trying to drag himself across the gleaming golden floor. But his eyes closed, and he fell into a deep and at first dreamless sleep.

  Awareness came to him slowly. He could see a cottage, built by a stream, a cornfield beyond it, blue mountains, hazy in the distance behind it. There was a man walking behind a team of oxen. He was plowing a field.

  Father.

  No, not Father. Father is Karnak. He never plowed a field in his life.

  Father.

  Confusion flowed over him like a fog, swirling, unreal. He looked up at the sun, but there was no sun, just a spinning crystal high in the sky, humming like a thousand bees.

  The man with the plow turned toward him. “Don’t spend your day lazing, Gracus!” he said.

  Gracus? I’m not Gracus. I am dreaming. That’s it! A dream. Wake up!

  He felt himself rising from sleep, felt the awareness of flesh and muscle. He tried to move his arm, but it seemed lodged, trapped. He opened his eyes. Gracus was lying close beside him. He must be lying on my arm, thought Bodalen. He tried to roll, but Gracus moved with him, his head lolling and his mouth open. Bodalen struggled to rise. He felt an unaccustomed weight on his right side and swung his head. There was another man lying there.

  And he had no head.

  I am lying on his head, thought Bodalen, panic gripping him. He surged up. The body on the right rose with him. Bodalen screamed. The headless body was part of him, the shoulders bonded to his flesh.

  Sweet heaven! Calm down, he told himself. This is still a dream. Just a dream.

  His left arm had disappeared, embedded in and merging with Gracus’ shoulder. He tried to pull it clear, but the limp body of the Brotherhood knight merely moved closer. Their legs touched and bonded.

  The crystal continued to spin.

  Across the room Bodalen saw the bodies of the other knights melding together, twisting as if involved in some silent, unnatural orgy. And between them, lying still on the golden floor, was the huge skeleton.

  Bodalen screamed again.

  And passed out.

  It awoke with no memory but stretched its huge muscles and rolled to its belly, its three legs levering it upright, its two heads striking the golden ceiling. Rage suffused the beast, and one of the heads roared in anger. The other remained silent, gray eyes blinking at the light from the crystal.

  Two other beasts were still asleep.

  The crystal spun, blue lights dancing between the golden bowls.

  The beast shuffled toward it, reaching out with its three great arms. A massive finger touched the flickering blue fire. Pain swept along the immense limbs, burning the creature. Both heads roared. One arm swept out, striking the crystal, dislodging it, sending it hurtling toward the far wall. The blue flames died.

  And all the lights dimmed and faded.

  The near darkness was comfortable and reassuring. The beast slumped down to its haunches. It was hungry. The smell of burned meat came from the hall beyond. It moved to the doorway and saw a small dead creature lying on the floor. The corpse was partly clothed in hide and metal. The meat was still fresh, and the beast’s hunger swelled. It tried to move forward, but its great bulk could not pass through the doorway. Rearing up, it began to tear at the exposed blocks above the metal frame. The other beasts joined it, adding their strength.

  And slowly the great rocks began to crack and give.

  Kesa Khan opened his eyes and smiled. Miriel was watching him and saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes. “We can move now,” he said with a dry laugh. “The way is made smooth.”

  “But you said there was nowhere else!”

  “There wasn’t. Now there is. It is a fortress—very old. It is called Kar-Barzac. Tomorrow we will make the journey.”

  “There is much that you are not telling me,” pointed out Miriel.

  “There is much you do not need to know. Rest, Miriel; you will need your strength. Go, sit with your friends. Leave me. I will call you when the time comes.” Miriel wanted to question him further, but the little man had once more closed his eyes and sat with arms folded before the small fire.

  She rose and wandered out into the night. Senta was asleep when she reached the small cave, but Angel was sitting under the stars, listening to the distant sounds of battle coming from the pass. A small boy was close by him. Miriel smiled. The two figures were in an identical position some twenty feet apart, Angel and the child both sitting cross-legged. The gladiator was sharpening his sword with a whetstone, and the boy was holding a piece of wood, copying him.

  “I see you have made a friend,” said Miriel. Angel grunted something inaudible. Miriel sat beside him. “Who is he?”

  “How should I know? He never speaks. He just mimics.”

  Miriel’s talent reached out, then drew back. “He’s totally deaf,” she said. “An orphan.”

  Angel sighed. “I didn’t need to know that,” he said, sheathing his sword. The ragged child slid his stick into his belt.

  Miriel reached out and stroked the gladiator’s face. “You are a good man, Angel. It means you have no real skill when it comes to harboring hate.”

  He caught her wrist and held it. “You shouldn’t be touching me,” he said softly. “The man for you is in there. Young, handsome, with a disgusting lack of scars.”

  “I will choose my own man when the time comes,” she told him. “I am not some Drenai noblewoman whose marriage brings an alliance between warring factions. Nor do I have to concern myself with a dowry. I will marry a man I like, a man I respect.”

  “You didn’t mention love,” he pointed out.

  “I have heard great talk of it, Angel, but I don’t know what it is. I love my father. I love you. I loved my sister and my mother. One word. Different feelings. Are we talking of lust?”

  “Partly,” he agreed. “And there’s nothing wrong with that, though many would have us believe otherwise. But it is more than that. I had an affair with a dark-haired woman once. Unbelievable. In bed she could raise more passion in me than any of my wives. But I didn’t stay with her. I didn’t love her, you see. I adored her, but I didn’t love her.”

  “There’s that word again!�
�� chided Miriel.

  He chuckled. “I know. It’s just a short way of describing someone who is your friend, bedmate, sister, aye, even mother sometimes. Someone who will arouse your passion and your admiration and your respect. Someone who, when the whole world turns against you, is still standing by your side. You look for someone like that, Miriel.” He released her hand and looked away.

  She leaned in close. “What about you, Angel? Would you be a friend, a lover, a brother, and a father?”

  He turned his scarred features toward her. “Aye, I would.” He hesitated, and she sensed his indecision. At last he smiled and, taking her hand, kissed it. “My boots are older than you, Miriel. And you may think it makes no difference now, but it does. You need a man who can grow with you, not grow senile on you.” He took a deep breath. “It’s hard to admit this, you know.”

  “You are not old,” she admonished him.

  “Don’t you like Senta?” he countered.

  She looked away. “I find him … exciting … frightening.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “That’s how life should be. Me, I’m like an old armchair, comfortable. A girl like you needs more than that. Give him a chance. There’s a lot of good in him.”

  “Why do you like him so much?”

  He grinned. “I knew his mother,” he said. “A long time ago. Before he was born.”

  “You mean …?”

  “I have no idea, but he could be. He certainly doesn’t take after the husband. But that’s between you and me now! Understand?”

  “And yet you would have fought him back at the cabin?”

  He nodded, his face solemn. “I wouldn’t have won. He’s very good, the best I’ve ever seen.” Suddenly she laughed. “What’s so amusing?” he asked.

  “He wasn’t going to try to kill you. I read that in his thoughts. He was looking to disarm or wound you.”

  “That would have been a bad mistake.”

  She looked into his eyes, and her smile faded. “But you might have been killing your own son!”.