In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “I know. Not very uplifting, is it? But I am a warrior, Miriel, and when swords are drawn, there is no emotion. Merely survival or death.” He glanced at the Nadir boy, who was sleeping against a rock, his head resting on his stick-thin arms and his knees drawn up to his belly. Rising silently, Angel moved across to the lad, covering him with his cloak. Then he returned to Miriel. “What is the old man planning?”

  “I don’t know, but we will be moving tomorrow to an old fortress in the mountains.”

  “That is good news. We cannot hold here for much longer. You should get some sleep.”

  “I can’t. He will need me soon.”

  “For what?”

  “For when the dead walk,” she answered.

  Kesa Khan sat by his fire, his ancient body shivering as the night winds fanned the flames. He was beyond tiredness, a mortal weariness settling on him. It was all so complex, so many lines of destiny to be drawn together. Why, he wondered idly, had this not come to pass when he was young and in full strength? Why now, when he was old and weary and ready for the grave? The gods were indeed capricious at best.

  Plans, ideas, strategies flowed through his mind, and each was dependent on another for success. The journey of a thousand leagues begins with a single step, he told himself. Concentrate only on the step before you.

  The demons would come, and with them the souls of the dead. How best to combat them? The Drenai woman was stronger than she knew, but she alone could not guarantee success. Closing his eyes, he mentally summoned Miriel. The time was close.

  He reached for the clay pot and the gray powder, but his hand drew back. He had taken too much already. Ah, but the gods loved a reckless man! Dipping his finger into the powder, he scooped a small amount into his mouth. His heart began to beat erratically, and he felt strength flowing into his limbs. The fire burned yellow, then gold, then purple, and the shadows on the walls became dancers, spinning and turning.

  The Drenai woman entered the cave. My, but she is ugly, he thought. Too tall and stringy. Even in his youth he could not have found her attractive. The Drenai warrior with the scarred face moved in behind her. Kesa Khan’s dark eyes focused on the man. “This is no place for those with no power,” he said.

  “I told him that,” said Miriel, seating herself opposite the shaman, “but he came anyway.”

  “She said there would be demons and the undead. Can they be slain with a sword?” asked Angel.

  “No,” answered the shaman.

  “With bare hands, then?”

  “No.”

  “How, then, will Miriel fight them?”

  “With her courage and her talent.”

  “Then I shall stand beside her. No one has yet doubted my courage.”

  “You are needed here to man the wall, to stop the human enemy. It would be the worst folly to allow you to enter the Void. It would be a waste.”

  “You do not control my life,” roared Angel. “I am here because of her. If she dies, I leave. I care nothing for you lice-infested barbarians. You understand? So if she is in danger, I go with her.”

  Kesa Khan’s eyes became hooded and wary as he gazed at the towering Drenai. How I hate them, he thought. Their casual arrogance, their monumental condescension. Lifting his eyes, he met Angel’s pale gaze and allowed his hatred to be transmitted to the warrior. Angel smiled and nodded slowly. Kesa Khan rose. “As you wish, Hard-to-Kill. You will journey with the woman.”

  “Good,” said the gladiator, sitting beside Miriel.

  “No,” she said. “This is not wise. If I am to fight, then I cannot look after Angel.”

  “I need no looking after!” he protested.

  “Be quiet!” she snapped. “You have no conception of the journey, or the perils, or what is needed even to protect yourself. You will be like a babe in arms. And I will have no time to suckle you!”

  He reddened and pushed himself to his feet. Kesa Khan stepped forward. “No, no!” he said. “I think you misjudge the situation, Miriel, as did I at first. The Void is a deadly place, but a man with courage is not to be lightly dismissed. I will send you both. And I will arm Hard-to-Kill with weapons he understands.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Here. Waiting. But I will be linked to you.”

  “But this is where the demons will come, surely.”

  “No. They will not be hunting me. Did you not realize? That is why I needed you. They will be seeking out your father. Zhu Chao knows he is a terrible danger to him. He has tried to kill him in this world and failed. Now he will seek to lure his soul into the Void. He must be protected.”

  “He also has no talent,” said Miriel, fear rising.

  “There you are wrong,” whispered Kesa Khan. “He has the greatest talent of all. He knows how to survive.”

  15

  KASAI AND HIS men had been hunting for more than three hours when they saw the southerner on the giant red stallion. Kasai reined in his hill pony. It was a fine beast, fourteen hands tall, but the southerner’s horse was sixteen hands, maybe more. Kasai’s cousin, Chulai, reined in alongside him. “Do we kill him?” he asked.

  “Wait,” ordered Kasai, studying the approaching rider. The man was dressed in black, a dark fur-lined cloak slung across his shoulders. There was dried blood on his face. The rider saw them and angled his horse toward the waiting group. Kasai saw no sign of fear in the man.

  “Fine horse,” said Kasai as the man pulled back on the reins.

  “Better than the man I killed to get him,” said the rider, his dark eyes scanning the group. He seemed amused, which angered Kasai.

  “It is a horse worth killing for,” he said pointedly, hand on his sword hilt.

  “True,” agreed the rider. “But the question you must ask yourself is whether he is worth dying for.”

  “We are five; you are one.”

  “Wrong. One and one. You and I. For when the action begins, I will kill you within the first heartbeat.” The words were spoken with a quiet certainty that swept over Kasai’s confidence like a winter wind.

  “You dismiss my brothers so easily?” he said, trying to reestablish the fact that they outnumbered the southerner.

  The rider laughed and swung his gaze over the other men. “I never dismiss any Nadir lightly. I’ve fought too many in the past. Now it seems you have two choices. You can fight, or we can ride to your camp and eat.”

  “Let us kill him,” said Chulai, slipping into the Nadir tongue.

  “It will be the last move you make, dung brain,” said the rider in perfect Nadir.

  Chulai half drew his sword, but Kasai ordered him back. “How do you know our tongue?” he inquired.

  “Do we eat or fight?” countered the man.

  “We eat. We offer you the hospitality of the tent. Now, how do you know our tongue?”

  “I have traveled among the Nadir for many years, both as friend and as enemy. My name is Waylander, though I have other names among the people of the tents.”

  Kasai nodded. “I have heard of you, Oxskull; you are a mighty warrior. Follow me and you will have the food you desire.” Kasai wheeled his pony and galloped toward the north. Chulai cast a murderous glance at the Drenai and then followed.

  Two hours later they were seated around a burning brazier within a tall goatskin tent. Waylander was sitting cross-legged on a rug, Kasai before him. Both men had dined from a communal bowl of curdled cheese and had shared a clay goblet of strong spirit.

  “What brings you to the steppes, Oxskull?”

  “I seek Kesa Khan of the Wolves.”

  Kasai nodded. “His death has been long overdue.”

  Waylander chuckled. “I am not here to kill him but to help him survive.”

  “It cannot be true!”

  “I assure you that it is. My daughter and my friends are with him now, or so I hope.”

  Kasai was amazed. “Why? What are the Wolves to you? We still talk of Kesa Khan’s magic and the werebeasts he sent to kill you. Why woul
d you help him?”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” answered Waylander. “There is a man who serves the emperor. He is the enemy I wish to see slain.”

  “Zhu Chao! May the gods curse his soul until the stars burn out! Aye, a good enemy, that one. But you are too late to help the Wolves. The Gothir have already begun their attack on the mountain stronghold. There is no way through.”

  “I will find a way.”

  Kasai nodded and drained the last of the spirit, refilling the goblet from a jug beside him. He offered it to Waylander, who drank sparingly. “My people are the Tall Spears. We are enemies of the Wolves. Lifelong and before that. But I do not want to see the Gothir destroy them. I wish to be the man who drives a blade into Anshi Chen. I wish to cut the head from Belash. I wish to drag out the heart of Kesa Khan. Such pleasures are not for some round-eyed, stone-dwelling pig to enjoy.”

  “How many men do you have here?”

  “Fighting men? Six hundred.”

  “Perhaps you should consider aiding the Wolves.”

  “Pah! My tongue would turn black and all my ancestors turn their backs on me when I entered the Vale of Rest. No, I shall not aid them, but I will aid you. I will give you food and, if you wish, a guide. There are other routes into the mountains.”

  “I thank you, Kasai.”

  “It is nothing. If you do find Kesa Khan, tell him why I helped you.”

  “I’ll do that. Tell me, do you dream of the day the Uniter will come?”

  “Of course. What Nadir does not?”

  “How do you see him?”

  “He will be of the Tall Spears, that is certain.”

  “And how will he unite the Nadir?”

  Kasai smiled. “Well, first he will obliterate the Wolves and all other treacherous tribes.”

  “Suppose the Uniter is not of the Tall Spears. Suppose he is of the Wolves.”

  “Impossible.”

  “He’ll need to be a rare man,” said Waylander.

  “Let’s drink to that,” said Kasai, passing the goblet.

  Wrapped in his cloak, his head resting on his saddle, Waylander lay on the rug, listening to the night winds howling outside the tent. On the far side of the brazier Kasai was sleeping, his two wives on either side of him and his children close by. Waylander was tired, but sleep would not come. Rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the smoke drifting through the hole in the tent roof, watching the wind swirl it away. He could see three stars high in the night sky. He closed his eyes.

  And remembered the day he had fought to protect the Armor of Bronze. The Nadir had come for him, but those men he had slain. Then the last of the wolf-beasts had stalked him. Two bolts through the brain had finally ended the terror. Wounded and alone, he had dragged himself from the cave only to face the knights of the Brotherhood. Those he could not defeat, but Durmast the giant, treacherous Durmast, had arrived to save him, giving his life for a man he had planned to betray.

  Waylander sighed. So many dead: Durmast, Gellan, Danyal, Krylla … And always the wars—conquest and battle, defeat and despair. Where does it end? he thought. With the grave? Or do the battles go on?

  Kasai was snoring. Waylander heard him grunt as one of his wives nudged him. Opening his eyes, he gazed across the tent. The brazier was burning low, a soft red glow filling the interior. Kasai had a family. He had made a gift to the future. He was loved.

  Waylander turned to his side, facing away from the Nadir leader. Once more he tried for sleep, but this time he saw Dardalion tied to the tree, his flesh sliced and bleeding, the men around him laughing and mocking.

  That was the day Waylander’s world had changed. He had rescued the priest, then had been drawn into the eternal battle, light against dark, harmony against chaos. And he had met Danyal. He groaned and rolled again, his body weary, his muscles aching.

  Stop dwelling on the past, he told himself. Think about tomorrow. Just tomorrow. He would find a way into the Mountains of the Moon. He would stand beside Miriel and Angel and do that which he did best. He would fight.

  He would kill.

  Sleep took him by surprise, and his soul drifted into darkness.

  The walls were clammy, the corridor dark and claustrophobic. Waylander blinked and tried to remember how he had come here. It was so hard to concentrate. Was he looking for something? Someone?

  There were no doors or windows, just this endless tunnel. Cold water was soaking through his boots as he waded on.

  I am lost, he thought.

  There was no source of light, yet he could see.

  Stairs. Must look for stairs. Fear touched him, but he suppressed it ruthlessly. Stay calm! Think! He moved on. Something white on the far wall caught his eye. There was an alcove there. Splashing across the streaming water, he saw a skeleton, rusty chains holding it to the wall. The ligaments and tendons had not yet rotted, and the thing was intact except for the left leg, which had parted at the knee. Something moved within the rib cage, and Waylander saw that two rats had made a nest there.

  “Welcome,” said a voice. Waylander stepped back in shock. The head was no longer a skull but a handsome face framed in golden hair. It smiled at him. Waylander’s heart was beating wildly, and he reached for his crossbow. Only then did he realize he was weaponless. “Welcome to my home,” said the handsome head.

  “I am dreaming!”

  “Perhaps,” agreed the head. A rat pushed its way through the gaping rib cage and sprang to a nearby shelf of stone.

  “Where is this place?” asked Waylander.

  The head laughed, the sound echoing away into the tunnel. “Well, let us think … Does it look to you like paradise?”

  “No.”

  “Then it must be somewhere else. But one mustn’t complain, must one? It is pleasant to have a visitor after so long. The rats are company, of course, but their conversation is rather limited.”

  “How do I get out of here?”

  The head smiled, and Waylander saw the pale eyes widen, a gleam of triumph showing there. Waylander spun. A sword lunged for his throat. Swaying aside, he slammed his fist into a face out of a nightmare. His assailant fell back into the water but rose swiftly. He looked like a man, save that his skin was scaled, his eyes huge and set, like a fish, on either side of his head. He had no nose, merely slits in the skin of his face, and his mouth was shaped like an inverted V, lipless and rimmed with fangs.

  The creature leapt forward. Waylander reached out, his fingers curling around one of the skeleton’s ribs and snapping it clear. The sword slashed down. Waylander sidestepped the blow and rammed the broken rib into the creature’s chest. Dropping the sword, it let out a terrible howl and disappeared.

  Waylander scooped up the sword and swung back to the skeleton. The handsome head was no longer visible. The rotting skull sagged against the vertebrae and toppled into the murky water.

  Sword in hand, Waylander moved on, every sense alert.

  The tunnel widened, and he saw an arch of stone and a path leading to a stairwell. An old man was sitting on the first stair. His robes were old and covered in mildew and mold. In his hands was a sphere of transparent crystal, a white light shining at the center.

  Waylander approached him.

  “This is your soul,” said the old man, holding up the crystal. “If I drop it, or break it, or crush it, you will never leave here. You will wander these tunnels for eternity. Go back the way you have come.”

  “I wish to climb those stairs, old man. Step aside.”

  “One step toward me and your soul perishes!” warned the old man, holding the crystal high. Waylander sprang forward, his sword smashing through the crystal, sending glittering shards to the water. The old man fell back. “How did you know?” he moaned.

  “My soul is my own,” answered Waylander. The old man vanished.

  And the stairs beckoned.

  Waylander edged forward. The stairwell walls shimmered with a faintly green light, and the stairs glistened as if oiled. He took a
long deep breath, then ventured onto the first step and then the second. Arms swept out from the walls, hooked fingers and talons reaching for him. The sword slashed down, hacking through a scaled wrist. Fingers grabbed at his black leather tunic. Tearing himself free, he forced his way up the stairwell, the sword blade hacking a path through the writhing, questing limbs.

  At the top of the stairs was a square landing. There were two doors, one edged with gold and partly open, the other guarded by a huge three-headed serpent whose coils rose up around the frame. The partly open door showed a shaft of sunlight, warm and welcoming, beckoning the man. Waylander ignored it, his eyes fixed to the serpent. Its mouths were cavernous, each showing twin fangs more than a foot long. Venom dripped from them, splashing to the stone of the landing, bubbling and hissing.

  A figure in a robe of light appeared at the partly open door. “Come this way. Quickly!” said the figure, a friendly-faced man with white hair and kindly blue eyes. “Come to the light!” Waylander moved toward him as if to comply, but once close enough, he reached out, pulling the man forward by his robes and then hurling him at the serpent. Two of the heads darted forward, the first closing on the man’s shoulder, the second sinking its fangs into his leg. The victim’s screams filled the air.

  As Waylander leapt past the struggling man, the third head lunged down. Waylander’s sword smote it in the eye. Black blood bubbled from the wound, and the head withdrew. Throwing his shoulder against the door, Waylander felt the wood give way, and he fell into a wide hall. Rolling to his feet, he saw a man waiting for him, sword in hand.

  It was Morak.

  “No dying dog to save you now!” said the dead assassin.

  “I don’t need help from the likes of you,” Waylander told him. “You were nothing then. You are less than nothing now.”

  Morak’s face twisted, and he ran to the attack. Waylander sidestepped, parried the lunge, and sent a riposte that almost tore Morak’s head from his neck. The assassin staggered and then righted himself, his head hanging at an obscene angle.

  “How do you kill a dead man?” he mocked. Morak attacked again. Waylander parried and once more chopped at the gashed neck. The head fell to the floor, but the body continued its assault. Waylander blocked two thrusts, slashing his blade into the already open rib cage. It did not even slow the headless opponent. Laughter came from the air. “Are you beginning to know fear?” Morak’s voice echoed in the hall, the air filled with screaming obscenities.