Hero in the Shadows (2 page)

“The Gray Man? Some demon of the night, perhaps? A protector of peasants?”

“He is coming,” she said.

He felt the prickle of fear on the nape hairs of his neck. “I suppose he is a giant or some such.”

She did not reply. A movement came from the bushes to his left. Camran surged to his feet, heart pounding, but it was Okrian.

“The men were wondering if you’d finished with her,” said the sergeant, his small eyes focusing on the peasant girl.

“No, I have not,” said Camran. “Maybe tomorrow.”

The sergeant shrugged and walked back to the campfire.

“One more day of life,” Camran told the girl. “Are you going to thank me?”

“I am going to watch you die,” she said.

Camran smiled, then punched her in the face, hurling her back to the ground. “Stupid peasant,” he said.

But her words kept coming back to him, and the following morning’s ride found him constantly scanning the back trail. His neck was beginning to ache. Camran was about to heel his horse forward when he took one last look back. For a heartbeat only he saw a shadow moving into the trees half a mile down the trail. He blinked. Was it a horseman or merely a wandering deer? He could not be sure. Camran swore softly, then summoned two of his riders. “Go back down the trail. There may be a man following. If there is, kill him.”

The men swung their mounts and rode away. Camran glanced at the girl. She was smiling.

“What’s happening, sir?” asked Okrian, nudging his horse alongside Camran’s mount.

“Thought I saw a rider. Let’s move on.”

They rode through the afternoon, stopping for an hour to walk the horses, then made camp in a sheltered hollow close to a stream. There was no sign of the two men Camran had sent out. He summoned Okrian to him. The big mercenary eased himself down alongside his captain, and Camran told him about the girl’s warning.

“Gray Man?” he said. “Never heard of him. But then, I don’t know this area of Kydor well. If he is following, the boys will get him. Tough lads.”

“Then where are they?”

“Probably dawdling somewhere. Or, if they caught him, they’re probably having a little fun with him. Perrin is said to be somewhat of an artist when it comes to the blood eagle. The men say he can open a man’s ribs, pin the guts back with twigs, and still leave the poor bastard alive for hours. Now, what about the girl, sir? The men could use a little diversion.”

“Aye, take her,” said Camran.

Okrian hauled her up by the hair and dragged her back to the campfire. A cheer went up from the nine men gathered there. Okrian hurled her toward them. The first man rose and grabbed her as she half fell. “Let’s see a little flesh,” he shouted, tearing at her dress.

Suddenly the girl spun on her heel, slamming her elbow into the man’s face, crushing his nose. Blood spurted over his mustache and beard, and he staggered back. The sergeant came up behind the girl, curling his arms around her and dragging her back into a tight embrace. Her head snapped back into his face, striking him on the cheekbone. He grabbed her hair and savagely twisted her head.

The first man drew a dagger and advanced toward her. “You puking bitch,” he snarled. “I’m going to cut you bad.
Not enough so we can’t enjoy you, you little whore, but enough to make you scream like a gutted pig.”

The girl, unable to move, stared with undisguised malevolence at the knifeman. She did not beg or cry out.

Suddenly there was a crunching thud. The knifeman stopped, his expression bemused. Slowly he reached up with his left hand. As he did so, he fell to his knees. His questing finger touched the black-feathered bolt jutting from the base of his skull. He tried to speak, but no words flowed. Then he pitched to his face.

For a few heartbeats no one moved. The sergeant hurled the girl to the ground and drew his sword. Another man, closer to the trees, grunted in shock and pain as a bolt speared his chest. He fell back, tried to rise, then gave out a gurgling scream as he died.

Camran, sword in hand, ran back to the fire, then charged into the undergrowth, his men fanning out around him.

All was silent, and there was no sign of an enemy.

“Make for open ground!” shouted Camran. The men ran back to their horses, saddling them swiftly. Camran grabbed the girl, forcing her to mount, then clambered up behind her and rode from the hollow.

Clouds drifted across the moon as the men raced through the forest. In the darkness they were forced to slow their flight. Camran saw a break in the trees and angled his mount toward it, emerging on a hillside. Okrian came close behind. As the other men broke clear, Camran counted them. Including himself and his sergeant, eight men were now clear of the trees. Flicking his gaze around the milling group, he counted again. The killer had taken another victim during the flight.

Okrian removed his black leather helm and rubbed his hand across his balding pate. “Shem’s balls,” he said, “we’ve lost five men and we’ve seen no one!”

Camran glanced around. They were in a circle of clear ground, but to progress in any direction, they would have to
reenter the forest. “We’ll wait for the dawn,” he said, dismounting. Dragging the girl from the saddle, he swung her around. “Who is this Gray Man?” he asked.

She did not reply, and he slapped her hard. “Talk to me, you bitch,” he hissed, “or I’ll cut open your belly and strangle you with your entrails!”

“He owns all the valley,” she said. “My brother and the other men you killed farmed for him.”

“Describe him.”

“He is tall. His hair is long, mostly gray.”

“An old man?”

“He does not move like an old man,” she said. “But yes, he is old.”

“And how did you know he would be coming?”

“Last year five men attacked a settlement north of the valley. They killed a man and his wife. The Gray Man followed them. When he returned, he sent out a wagon and the bodies were brought back and displayed in the market square. Outlaws do not trouble us now. Only foreigners such as yourself would bring evil to the Gray Man’s land.”

“Does he have a name?” asked Camran.

“He is the Gray Man,” she said. “That is all I know.”

Camran moved away from her and stared back at the shadow-haunted trees. Okrian joined him. “He can’t be everywhere at once,” whispered Okrian. “Much will depend on which way we choose to travel. We were heading east, so perhaps we should change our plans.”

The mercenary captain drew a map from the pocket of his saddlebag and opened it on the ground. They had been heading toward the eastern border and Qumtar, but now all Camran wished to see was an end to the tree line. On open ground the assassin could not overcome eight armed men. He studied the map in the moonlight. “The nearest edge of the forest is to the northeast,” he said. “Around two miles away. Once it is light, we’ll make for it.” Okrian nodded but did not reply.

“What are you thinking?”

The sergeant took a deep breath, then rubbed his hand across his face. “I was remembering the attack. Two crossbow bolts, one close upon the other. No time to reload. So either there’s two men or it must be a double-winged weapon.”

“If there’d been two men, we’d have seen some sign as we rushed the undergrowth,” said Camran. “They couldn’t both have avoided us.”

“Exactly. So it is one man who uses a double crossbow. One man, one skilled assassin who, having already killed the first two we sent, can then take out three tough men without being seen.”

“I take it there is a point to this?” muttered Camran.

“There was a man—years ago—who used such a weapon. Some say he was killed. Others claim he left the lands of the Drenai and bought himself a palace in Gothir territory. But perhaps he came instead to Kydor.”

Camran laughed. “You think we are being hunted by Waylander the Slayer?”

“I hope not.”

“Gods, man, we’re two thousand miles from Gothir. No, this is just another hunter using a similar weapon. Whoever he is, we’re ready for him now,” said Camran. “Put two men on watch and tell the rest to get some sleep.”

Camran moved to the girl, retied her hands and feet, then settled down on the ground. He had served in six campaigns and knew how important it was to rest whenever possible. Sleep did not come instantly. Instead he lay in the darkness thinking about what Okrian had said.

Waylander. Even the name made him shiver. A legend back in the days of his youth, Waylander the Assassin was said to be a demon in human form. Nothing could stop him—not walls or armed guards, not spells. It was said that the terrifying priests of the Dark Brotherhood had hunted him. All had
died. Werebeasts created by a Nadir shaman were sent after him. Even those he had slain.

Camran shivered. Get a grip on yourself, he thought. Back then Waylander was said to be a man in his late thirties. If he was following them now, he would have to be a man close to sixty, and an old man could not kill and move as this one did.

No, he decided, it could not be Waylander. With that thought he slept.

He awoke suddenly and sat up. A shadow moved across him. Hurling himself to his right, he ducked and scrabbled for his sword. Something struck him on the brow, and he pitched back. Okrian shouted a battle cry and sprinted forward. Camran surged to his feet, sword in hand. Clouds covered the moon once more, but not before Camran saw a shadowy figure merge into the darkness of the trees.

“Who was on watch?” shouted Camran. “By the gods, I’ll cut his bastard eyes out!”

“No point in that,” said Okrian, pointing to a sprawled figure. Blood was pooling around the man. His throat had been slashed open. Another dead man was hunched by a boulder. “You’ve been wounded,” said Okrian. Blood was dripping from a shallow cut in Camran’s brow.

“I ducked at the right moment,” said the captain. “Otherwise his blade would have opened my throat.” He glanced at the sky. “Another hour and it will be light.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to the bleeding wound on his brow.

“I think I cut him,” said Okrian. “But he moved fast.”

Camran continued to dab at his wound, but the blood was flowing freely. “You’ll have to stitch it,” he told Okrian.

“Yes, sir.” The hulking sergeant moved to his horse, removing a medicine pouch from his saddlebag. Camran sat very still as Okrian went to work. He glanced at the four other surviving conscripts, sensing their fear. Even as the sun rose, there was no lessening of tension, for now they had to ride back into the forest.

The sky was clear and bright as Camran stepped into the saddle, the hostage girl seated before him. He swung to his men. “If he attacks in daylight, we’ll kill him,” he said. “If not, we’ll be clear of the trees soon. He’ll stop following us then. He’ll not tackle six armed men on open ground.”

His words did not convince them. But then, they did not convince him, either. They moved slowly toward the trees, found the trail, then picked up the pace, Camran in the lead and Okrian just behind him. They rode for half an hour. Okrian glanced back to see two riderless horses. He shouted an alarm. Panic touched them all then, and they began to ride faster, lashing their horses.

Camran emerged from the trees and hauled on the reins. He was sweating now and could feel his heart beating wildly. Okrian and the other two surviving men drew their swords.

A rider on a dark horse moved slowly from the trees, his long black cloak drawn closely around him. The four warriors sat very still as he approached. Camran blinked back sweat. The man’s face was strong and somehow ageless. He could have been anywhere from his thirties to his fifties. His gray hair, lightly streaked with black, was shoulder length, held back from his face by a black silk band tied about his brow. He was expressionless, but his dark eyes focused on Camran.

He rode to within ten feet of them, then drew back on the reins, waiting.

Camran felt the sting of salt sweat on his cut brow. His lips were dry, and he licked them. One gray-haired man against four warriors. The man could not survive. Why, then, the terrible fear causing Camran’s belly to cramp?

In that moment the girl suddenly threw herself from the saddle. Camran tried to grab her, missed, and swung back to face the rider. In that briefest of moments the rider’s cloak flickered. His arm came up. Two crossbow bolts slammed into the riders on either side of Okrian. The first pitched from
the saddle, and the second slumped forward, sliding over his horse’s neck. Okrian heeled his mount forward and charged at the rider. Camran followed, his saber extended. The man’s left hand flashed forward. A shining streak of silver light sped through the air, punching through Okrian’s left eye socket and into his brain. His body tipped back, his blade flying from his hand. Camran’s saber lanced out toward the assassin, but the man swayed in the saddle, the blade missing him by mere inches. Camran swung his mount.

Something struck him in the throat. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Dropping his sword, he brought his hand up. Grabbing the hilt of the throwing knife, he dragged it clear of his flesh. Blood bubbled over his tunic. His horse reared, dumping him to the grass. As he lay there, choking on his own blood, a face appeared above his own.

It was the girl.

“I told you,” she said.

The dying man watched in horror as her bound hands lifted the blood-drenched throwing knife, raising it above his face. “This is for the women,” she said.

And the blade swept down.

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