In the Realm of the Wolf (15 page)

The moonlight cast spectral shadows on the small clearing where Belash waited and Morak shivered. What if Waylander were to come from a different direction? What if, even now, he was creeping silently through the forest behind him? Morak swung his head but could see nothing untoward. But then, who could see anything in that cursed gloom!

The Nadir’s plan was a simple one, born of a simple mind. But they were not dealing with a simpleton. If he stayed here, he could die. There was no certainty to the plan. Yet if he left the Nadir behind, Belash would feel betrayed. And if he survived, the Nadir would then hunt him down. Morak toyed with the thought of taking the risk, of slipping away quietly, but Belash was a woodsman of almost mystical skill. He would hear him and give chase immediately. An arrow then—straight through the back. No. The Nadir was strong. What if it failed to kill immediately? Morak knew he could best Belash sword to sword, but the Nadir’s immense strength might bring him in close enough to use that wicked dagger … That was a thought he did not enjoy.

Think, man!

Dropping the bow, Morak felt around the soft earth until his fingers closed on a large stone the size of his fist. That was the answer. Standing, he walked back out into the clearing. Belash glanced around.

“What is wrong?”

“I have another plan,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Is that him?” hissed Morak, pointing to the north.

Belash’s head jerked around. “Where?”

The stone cracked against the back of the Nadir’s neck. Belash fell forward. Morak hit him again, then again. The Nadir slumped to the ground. Morak dropped the stone and
drew his dagger. Always best to make sure. Then he heard movement in the undergrowth. Backing away from the sound, Morak turned and ran, sprinting down the track.

And did not see the ugly hound that emerged from the bushes.

Belash floated up from the darkness to a painful awakening. Soft earth was against his face, and his head pounded. He tried to rise, but nausea swamped him. Reaching up, he touched the back of his neck. The blood was beginning to congeal. His hand moved down to his belt. The knife was still in its sheath. For a while he struggled to remember what had happened. Had Waylander come upon them?

No. I would now be dead.

His mouth was dry. Something cold pushed against his face. He turned his head and found himself staring into the baleful eyes of a huge, scarred hound. Belash lay perfectly still, save for his hand, which inched slowly toward his knife.

“That would not be wise,” said a cold voice.

At first he thought it was the hound that had spoken to him. A devil dog come to claim his soul?

“Here, dog!” came the voice again. The hound padded away. Belash forced himself to his knees and saw the black-garbed figure sitting on the boulder. The man’s crossbow was hanging from his belt, his knives sheathed.

“How did you surprise me?” asked Belash.

“I didn’t. Your friend—Morak?—struck you from behind.”

Belash tried to stand, but his legs were too weak and he slumped back. Slowly he rolled to his back, then, taking hold of the jutting branch of a fallen tree, he pulled himself to a sitting position. “Why am I still alive?” he asked.

“You intrigue me,” the man told him.

Truly the ways of the southerners are mysterious, thought Belash, leaning his head against the rough bark of the tree trunk. “You left me my weapons. Why?”

“I saw no reason to remove them.”

“You think I am so poor an opponent that you need not fear me?”

The man chuckled. “I never yet met a Nadir who could be described as a poor opponent, but I have seen many head
wounds, and yours will leave you weak for several days, if not longer.”

Belash did not reply. Bracing his legs beneath him, he rose unsteadily and then sat back upon the tree. His head was spinning, but he preferred to be on his feet. He was only some three paces from Waylander, and he wondered if he could draw the knife and catch the man unawares. It was unlikely, but it was the only chance he had to stay alive.

“Don’t even think of it,” said Waylander softly.

“You read thoughts?”

“I don’t need any special skill to understand a Nadir mind, not when it comes to battle. But you wouldn’t make it—trust me on that. Are you Notas?”

Belash was surprised. Few southerners understood the complex structures governing the Nadir tribes and their composition. Notas meant no tribe, an outcast. “No. I am of the Wolves.”

“You are a long way from the Mountains of the Moon.”

“You have walked among the tent people?”

“Many times. Both as friend and as enemy.”

“What was the name the Nadir gave you?” inquired Belash.

The man smiled thinly. “They called me the Soul Stealer. And an old Notas leader once gave me the name Oxskull.”

Belash nodded. “You rode with the giant Ice-eyes. There are songs about you, dark songs of dark deeds.”

“And they are true,” admitted the man.

“What happens now?”

“I haven’t decided. I will take you to my home. You can rest there.”

“Why do you think I will not kill you once my strength has returned?”

“The Guild allows no Nadir members. Therefore, you were to be paid by Morak. Judging by the lumps on your skull, I would say that Morak has terminated your employment. What would you gain by killing me?”

“Nothing,” agreed Belash. Except the honor of being the man who slew the Soul Stealer. And surely the mountains would look kindly upon the man who avenged the theft of the treasure. Surely they would then grant him the vengeance he sought.

Waylander moved forward. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow me.” The tall man strode away, his broad back an inviting target.

Not yet, thought Belash. First let me find my strength.

6

T
HE TABLE WAS
forty feet long and three feet wide and once had been covered by fine linen and decorated with golden plates and goblets. The finest foods had graced the plates, and nobles had carved their meat with knives of gold. Now there was no fine linen, and the plates were of pewter, the goblets of clay. Bread and cheese lay upon the plates, and cool springwater filled the goblets. At the table sat twenty-eight priests in white robes. Behind each priest, glittering in the lantern light, was a suit of armor, a bright silver helm, a shining cuirass, and a scabbarded sword. And against each suit of armor rested a long wooden staff.

Ekodas sat at the head of the table, Dardalion beside him.

“Let me present my own arguments,” pleaded Ekodas.

“No, my son. But I will do them justice, I promise you.”

“I did not doubt that, sir. But I cannot do justice to yours.”

“Do your best, Ekodas. No man can ever ask for more than that.” Dardalion lifted a finger to his lips, then closed his eyes. All heads bowed instantly, and the union began. Ekodas felt himself floating. There was no sight, no sound, no feeling: just warmth. He sensed Vishna and Magnic, Palista, Seres … all the others flowing all around him.

“We are one,” pulsed Dardalion.

“We are one,” echoed the Thirty.

And the prayer song began, the great hymn to the Source, mind-sung in a tongue unknown to any of them, even Dardalion. The words were unfathomable, but the sensations created by the sounds produced a sweet magic, filling the soul with light.

Ekodas was transported back to his childhood to see again the tall, gangling dark-haired youth with the violet eyes
working behind his father in the fields, planting the seed, gathering the harvest. Those were good days, though he did not know it at the time. Shunned by the other youths of the village, he had no friends and no one to share his small joys, his discoveries. But now, as he soared within the hymn, he saw the love his parents gave him despite their fear of his talent. He felt the warm hugs from his mother and his father’s callused hand ruffling his hair.

And such was the power of the hymn that he could even see, without hate, the Vagrian soldiers attacking his home, watch the ax that dashed his father’s brains to the floor, the plunging knife that snatched his mother from life. He had been in the barn when the Vagrians had ridden in. His parents had been slain within the first minute of the raid. Ekodas had leapt from the high hay stall and run toward the soldiers. One had turned and lashed out with a sword. It had cut the boy’s shoulder and neck, glancing up to slash across his brow.

When he awoke, he was the only living Drenai for miles around. The Vagrians had even butchered the farm animals. All the buildings were burning, and a great pall of smoke hung over the land. He walked the two miles to the village on the third day after the raid. Bodies lay everywhere, and though the smoke was gone, great flocks of crows circled in the sky. He gathered what food remained—a half-charred side of ham, a small sack of dried oats—and found a shovel, which he carried back to his home to dig a deep grave for his parents.

For a year he lived alone, gathering grain, edible roots, and flowers that could be made into soups. And in that year he saw no one. In the day he would work. At night he would dream of flying through the night sky, of soaring above the mountains in the clean light of the stars. Such dreams!

One night, as he circled and soared, a dark shape materialized before him. It was a man’s face with black hair waxed close to the skull, high slanted eyes, and long braided sideburns that hung far below the chin.

“Where are you from, boy?” asked the man.

Ekodas was frightened. He backed away, but the face swelled and a body appeared, long arms reaching out for him. The hands were scaled and taloned, and Ekodas fled. Other dark shapes appeared, like the crows above the village, and
they called out to him. Far below he saw the little shelter he had created for himself from the unburned timber of the barn. Down, down he flew, merging with his body and snapping awake, his heart beating wildly. In the heartbeat between dream and awakening he was sure he had heard triumphant laughter.

Two days later a traveler came by, a slender man with a gentle face. He walked slowly, and when he sat, he winced with pain, for there was a stitched wound in his back.

“Good morning, Ekodas,” he said. “I am Dardalion, and you must leave this place.”

“Why? It is my home.”

“I think you know why. Zhu Chao has seen your spirit soaring. He will send men to bring you to him.”

“Why should I trust you?”

The man smiled and reached out his hand. “You have the talent, the gift of the Source. Touch me. Find, if you can, a spark of evil.”

Ekodas gripped the hand, and in an instant Dardalion’s memories flowed through him, the great siege of Purdol, the battles with the Brotherhood, the journey with Waylander, the terrible memories of bloodshed and death.

“I will come with you, sir.”

“You will not be alone, my boy. There are nine like you so far. There will be more.”

“How many more?”

“We will be thirty.”

The prayer hymn ended. Ekodas felt the coldness of separation and the awareness of flesh and sinew, the cold breeze from the open window blowing against his bare legs. He shivered and opened his eyes.

Dardalion stood. Ekodas glanced up at the abbot’s slender, ascetic face.

“My brothers,” said Dardalion, “behind you stands the armor of the Thirty. Beside it is the staff of the Source priest. Tonight we will decide where our destiny lies. Do we wear the armor and find the Source in a battle to the death against the forces of evil, or do we go our separate ways in peace and harmony? Tonight I speak for the latter. Ekodas will argue for the former. At evening’s end you will each stand and make your
decision. You will take up either the staff or the sword. May the Source guide us in our deliberations.”

He was silent for several moments, and then he began to speak of the binding power of love and the changes it wrought in the hearts of men. He spoke of the evil of hatred and greed and lust, pointing out with great force the folly of believing that swords and lances could eradicate evil. He spoke of rage and the demons that lay waiting within every human soul, demons with whips of fire that could impel a good man to rape and murder. Ekodas listened with growing astonishment. All his own arguments and more flowed from the abbot.