In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “That makes you feel guilty? That you didn’t say the words?”

  “Yes. He deserved more. And it’s so hard to accept that he’s …” She swallowed hard, unable to give sound to the word. Forcing a smile, she brightened briefly. “He had such a zest for life, didn’t he? And always so witty. Nothing gray about Senta, was there?”

  “Nothing gray,” he agreed. “He lived his life to the full. He fought, loved …”

  “… and died.” She said it swiftly and fought to hold back the tears.

  “Yes, he died. Shemak’s balls, we all die.” Angel sighed, then smiled. “For myself I’ve no regrets. I’ve had a full life. But it grieves me to know that … you’re here with me now. Everything is ahead of you, or it should be.”

  She took his hand. “We’ll be together in the Void. Who knows what adventures await? And maybe he’s there … waiting!”

  Another arrow thudded into the table, then Angel heard the sound of boots on the stairs. Surging to his feet, he drew his sword. As the Gothir swarmed down, Angel wrenched the table aside and leapt to meet them with Miriel just behind him.

  Angel killed two, Miriel a third, and the Gothir fell back. An archer loomed at the top of the stairs. Miriel hurled a knife, which lanced into his shoulder, and he dived from sight. Angel backed away and wedged the table across the stairwell. “Well,” he said, with a wide grin, “we’re not finished yet.”

  Striding across the hall, he saw the priest Ekodas kneeling beside the stricken Dardalion. The abbot was still sleeping, and Angel paused. “How is he?” he asked.

  “Dying,” replied Ekodas.

  “I thought you had healed the wound.”

  “I did, but his heart has given out. It is almost ruptured, and the valves are thinner than papyrus.” It was the first time the two men had spoken since the battle against the beast. Ekodas glanced up, then stood before the former gladiator. “I am sorry for what happened,” he said. “I … I …”

  “It was the crystal,” Angel put in swiftly. “I know. It had a similar effect on me.”

  “Yet you destroyed it.”

  “I never had it in my hands. Don’t torture yourself, priest.”

  “Priest no longer. I am not worthy.”

  “I’m no judge, Ekodas, but we all have weaknesses. We’re made that way.”

  The slender priest shook his head. “That is generous of you. But I watched as your friend died, and I made a pact with evil. Zhu Chao came to me in that chamber. He seemed like … like a brother of the soul. And for that short time I had such vile dreams. I never realized there was so much … darkness inside me. I will walk another path now.” He shrugged. “The crystal didn’t change me, you see. It merely opened my eyes to what I am.”

  Dardalion stirred. “Ekodas!” The young priest knelt by the abbot, taking his hand. Angel moved away toward the barricade.

  “I am here, my friend,” said Ekodas.

  “It … was all … done in faith, my son. And I can feel the others waiting for me. Summon the living for me.”

  “There is only Vishna.”

  “Ah. Fetch him, then.”

  “Dardalion, I …”

  “You wish to be … released from your vows. I know. The woman Shia.” Dardalion’s eyes closed, and a spasm of pain twisted his features. “You are free, Ekodas. Free to wed, free to live … free to be.”

  “I am sorry, Father.”

  “You have nothing to be … sorry for. I sent you down there. I knew your destiny, Ekodas. From the moment she came to the temple there was a bond between you. Know peace, Ekodas … and … the joys of love.” He smiled weakly. “You have done your duty by me, and by the others. Now … fetch Vishna, for time is short.”

  Ekodas sent out a pulse, and the tall forked-bearded warrior came running from the far side of the hall to kneel beside the dying abbot.

  “I can speak no more,” whispered Dardalion. “Join me in communion.”

  Vishna closed his eyes, and Ekodas knew that their two spirits were united. He made no attempt to join the communion and waited patiently for it to end. He was holding Dardalion’s hand when the abbot died. Vishna jerked and groaned, then opened his dark eyes.

  “What did he say?” asked Ekodas, releasing the hand.

  “If we survive, I am to travel to Ventria and found a new temple. The Thirty will live on. I am sorry that you will not be accompanying me.”

  “I cannot, Vishna. It’s gone from me. And truth to tell, I don’t want it back.”

  Vishna stood. “You know, just as he died and flew from me, I felt the presence of the others: Merlon, Palista, Magnic. All waiting for him. It was wonderful. Truly wonderful.”

  Ekodas gazed down on Dardalion’s dead face, which was perfectly still and serene. “Farewell, Father,” he whispered.

  The silence beyond the keep was broken by the sound of distant trumpets.

  “The Source be praised,” said Vishna.

  “What is it?”

  “That is the Gothir signal for withdrawal.” He sat down and closed his eyes, his spirit flying from the keep. Moments later he returned. “A messenger has come from the emperor. The siege is lifted. It is over, Ekodas! We live!”

  At the barricade Angel peered into the courtyard. The Gothir were withdrawing in order, silently and in ranks of three. Angel sheathed his sword and turned to the defenders. “I think you have won, my lads!” he shouted.

  Orsa Khan leapt to the barricade and watched the departing soldiers. Swinging to Angel, he threw his arms around the gladiator and kissed both of his scarred cheeks. The other remaining Nadir surged forward, pulling Angel down and hoisting him to their shoulders, and a great cheer went up.

  Watching the scene, Miriel smiled, but the smile faded as she gazed around the hall. The dead were lying everywhere. Kesa Khan emerged from the lower stair, leading women and children back to the light. The old shaman approached her.

  “Your father has slain Zhu Chao,” he said, but he did not meet her gaze. “You have won for us, Miriel.”

  “At great cost,” she told him.

  “Yes, the price was not insignificant.” The small boy who had followed Angel was beside the shaman, and Kesa Khan reached out and patted his head. “Still, we have a future,” said the old man. “Without you we could have been dust in the mountains. I wish joy for you.”

  Miriel took a deep, slow breath. “I can’t believe it is over.”

  “Over? No. Only this battle. There will be others.”

  “Not for me.”

  “For you also. I have walked the futures, Miriel. You are a child of battle. You will remain so.”

  “We shall see,” she said, turning away from him to see Angel striding toward her. She looked up into the scarred, ravaged face and the twinkling gray eyes. “It looks as though we’ve a little time left, after all,” she said.

  “It certainly seems that way,” he agreed. Reaching down, Angel hoisted the young Nadir boy to his shoulder. The child giggled happily and waved his wooden sword in the air.

  “You’re good with children,” said Miriel. “He adores you.”

  “He’s a courageous pup. He followed me down into the depths and then charged the beast with a burning brand. Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  Angel turned to Kesa Khan. “Who will look after him?” he asked.

  “I shall. As a son,” answered the shaman.

  “Good, I may visit now and again. I’ll hold you to that.” Lifting the boy down, he watched as Kesa Khan led him away. The boy glanced back and waved his sword. Angel chuckled. “What now?” he asked Miriel.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, looking into his pale eyes.

  “I know. Dardalion told me.”

  “It frightens me.”

  “You? The battle queen of Kar-Barzac? I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t have any right to ask, but—”

  “Don’t say it, girl. There’s no need. Old Angel will be there. He’ll always be there. In an
y way that you want him.”

  The walls of Dros Delnoch reared high into the southern sky as Waylander drew rein. Karnak heeled his mount alongside the black-clad assassin. “The war beckons,” he said.

  “I’m sure you’ll conquer, General. It’s what you’re good at.”

  Karnak laughed. “I expect I shall.” Then his smile faded. “What of you, Waylander? How does it stand between us?”

  The assassin shrugged. “Whatever is said here will not change a jot of what is bound to follow. I know you, Karnak; I always did. You live for power, and your memory is long. Your son is dead—you’ll not forget that. And after a while you’ll come to blame me—or mine—for his passing. And I, too, have my memories. We are enemies, you and I. We will remain so.”

  The Drenai leader gave a thin smile. “You do not think highly of me. I can’t say as I blame you, but you are wrong. I am willing to forget the past. You saved my life, and in so doing you have probably saved the Drenai from destruction. That’s what I shall remember.”

  “Perhaps,” said Waylander, swinging his horse’s head and riding toward the Mountains of the Moon.

  Epilogue

  KARNAK RETURNED TO Dros Delnoch, gathered the forces there, and led them against the Ventrians, smashing their army in decisive battles at Erekban and Lentrum.

  In the two years that followed Karnak took to brooding about the possibility of assassination, becoming convinced that Waylander would one day seek him out and slay him. Against the advice of Asten he once more contacted the Guild, increasing the price on the assassin’s head.

  A veritable army of searchers was dispatched, but no news of Waylander surfaced in Drenan.

  Until one day three of the best hunters returned, bearing a rotting head wrapped in canvas and a small ebony and steel double-bladed crossbow. Stripped of flesh, the skull and the crossbow were exhibited in the Museum at Drenan, under the inscription, cast in bronze, “Waylander the Slayer, the man who killed the king.”

  One winter’s day, three years later and five after the siege of Kar-Barzac, the crossbow was stolen. In the same week, as Karnak marched at the head of the annual victory parade, a young woman with long dark hair stepped from the crowd. In her right hand was the stolen bow.

  People in the crowd saw her speak to the Drenai leader just before she killed him, two bolts plunging into his chest. A rider, leading a second horse, galloped onto the Avenue of Kings, and the woman vaulted to the saddle just as Karnak’s guards were rushing to apprehend her.

  The two assassins made their escape, and many were the theories surrounding the murder: They had been hired by the son of the Ventrian king, the battle monarch, whose body had been thrown in a mass grave after the defeat at Erekban. Or she was one of Karnak’s mistresses, furious after he had discarded her for a younger, prettier girl. Some in the crowd swore they recognized the male rider as Angel, a former gladiator. None knew the woman.

  Karnak was given a state funeral. Two thousand soldiers marched behind the wagon bearing his body. Crowds lined the Avenue of Kings, and many were the tears shed for the man described on his tombstone as “this greatest of Drenai heroes.”

  The skull of Waylander was sold eight years later. It was bought at auction by the Gothir merchant Matze Chai, acting on behalf of one of his clients, a mysterious noble who lived in a palace in the Gothir city of Namib. When asked why a foreigner should pay such a vast amount for the skull of a Drenai assassin, Matze Chai smiled and spread his elegant hands.

  “But you must know,” insisted the curator of the museum.

  “I assure you that I do not.”

  “But the price … It is colossal!”

  “My client is a very rich man. He has invested with me for many years.”

  “Was he a friend to this Waylander?”

  “I gather they were close,” admitted Matze Chai.

  “But what will he do with the skull? Display it?”

  “I doubt it. He told me he intends to bury it.”

  “Why?” asked the man, astonished. “Forty thousand Raq just to bury it?”

  “He is a man who likes to choose his own endings,” said Matze Chai.

  “I love David Gemmell’s work. He’s one of the best out there today, and one of the reasons that fantasy is alive and well.”

  —New York Times bestselling author

  R. A. SALVATORE

  WHITE WOLF

  A Novel of Druss the Legend

  by David Gemmell

  With each new novel, and in prose as sharp and skillfully wielded as the swords of his great heroes, David Gemmell carries to stunning new heights the swashbuckling tradition of Robert E. Howard and Robert Jordan. His action-packed stories feature unforgettable characters journeying through sorcerous worlds where love can exalt a heart or debase it, power can ennoble or corrupt, and honor is the most powerful weapon of all. Now Gemmell has written a long-awaited novel featuring his newest hero—Skilgannon—and his most popular character of all time: Druss the Legend.

  Published by Del Rey

  Available in paperback wherever books are sold

  “Gemmell not only knows how to tell a story, he knows how to tell a story you want to hear. He does high adventure as it ought to be done.”

  —Greg Keyes,

  Author of The Briar King

  THE SWORDS OF

  NIGHT AND DAY

  A Novel of Skilgannon the Damned

  by David Gemmell

  With mythic sweep and epic scope, David Gemmell’s bestselling novels of magic and adventure feature brooding heroes who fight to preserve all that is good and honorable in themselves and in the worlds through which they stride like lonely giants. In times of terror and despair, theirs are the swords that carve a shining path, inspiring others to follow. Even after their deaths, their names live on.…

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