In the Realm of the Wolf (5 page)

“I’ve heard of Morak and Courail,” said Dakeyras.

“Belash is Nadir and a knife fighter. Senta is a swordsman paid to fight duels. He’s very good—old noble family.”

“I expect there is also a large reward for information regarding my whereabouts,” said Dakeyras softly.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Ralis, “but then, it would be a brave man who betrayed Waylander the Slayer.”

“Are you a brave man?” The words were spoken gently, but the undercurrent was tense and the old man found his stomach knotting.

“More guts than sense,” admitted Ralis, holding the man’s dark gaze.

Waylander smiled. “That’s as it should be,” he said, and the moment passed.

“What will we do?” asked Miriel.

“Prepare for a long winter,” said Waylander.

Ralis was a light sleeper, and he heard the creaking of leather hinges as the main door opened. The old man yawned and swung his legs from the bed. Although it was almost dawn, thin shafts of moonlight were still seeping through the cracks in the shutters of the window. He rose and stretched. The air was cool and fresh with the threat of approaching winter. Ralis shivered and pulled on his warm woolen leggings and tunic.

Opening his bedroom door, he stepped into the main room and saw that someone had fanned the embers of the previous night’s fire and laid fresh kindling on the hungry flames. Waylander was a courteous host, for there would not normally have been a fire this early on an autumn day. Moving to the shuttered window, he lifted the latch and pushed at the wooden frame. Outside the moon was fading in a graying sky, the stars retreating, the pale pink of the dawn showing above the eastern peaks.

Movement caught his eye, and Ralis squinted, trying to focus. On the mountainside, at least a quarter of a mile distant, he thought he saw a man running. Ralis yawned and returned to the fire, easing himself down into the deep leather chair. The kindling was burning well, and he added two seasoned logs from a stack beside the hearth.

So, he thought, the mystery is solved at last. What was surprising was that he felt in such low spirits now. For years he had known Dakeyras and his family: the beautiful wife and the twin girls. And always he had sensed there was more to the mountain man. And the mystery had occupied his mind, perhaps even helping keep him active at an age when most—if not all—of his youthful contemporaries were dead.

A fugitive, a nobleman having turned his back on wealth and privilege, a refugee from Gothir tyranny … all these he had considered as backgrounds for Dakeyras. And more. But the speculation was now over. Dakeyras was the legendary Waylander, the man who had killed King Orien’s son, Niallad. But he was also the hero who had found the hidden Armor of Bronze, returning it to the Drenai people and freeing them from the murderous excesses of the invading Vagrians.

The old man sighed. What fresh mysteries could he find now to exercise his mind and blot out the passing of time and the inevitable approach of death?

He heard Miriel rise from her bed in the far room. She wandered in, tall and slim and naked. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough, girl. You should put some clothes on.” His voice was gruff, the words said in a sharper tone than he had intended. It was not that her nakedness aroused him; it was the opposite, he realized. Her youth and beauty only made him feel the weight of his years looming behind him like a mountain. She returned to her room, and he leaned back in his chair. When had arousal died? He thought back. It had been in Melega that he had first noticed it some fifteen years before. He had hired a whore, a buxom wench, but had been unable to perform despite all her expert ministrations.

At last she had shrugged. “Dead birds cannot rise from the nest,” she had told him cruelly.

Miriel returned, dressed now in gray leggings and a shirt of creamy white wool. “Is that more to your liking, sir tinker?”

He forced a smile. “Everything about you, my dear, is to my liking. But naked you remind me of all that there once was. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” she said, but he knew she was humoring him. What did the young ever understand? Pulling a tall chair to the fireside, she reversed it and sat astride it opposite him, her elbows resting on the high back. “You mentioned some of the men who are hunting my father,” she said. “Can you tell me of them?”

“They are all dangerous men, and there will be those among them I do not know. But I know Morak the Ventrian. He’s deadly, truly deadly. I believe he is insane.”

“What weapons does he favor?” she asked.

“Saber and knife, but he is a very skilled bowman. And he has great speed—like a striking snake. He’ll kill anyone: man, woman, child, babe in arms. He has a gift for death.”

“What does he look like?”

“Medium height, slim. He tends to wear green, and he has a ring of heavy gold set with a green stone. It matches his eyes, cold and hard.”

“I will watch out for him.”

“If you see him, kill him,” snapped Ralis. “But you won’t see him.”

“You don’t think he’ll come here?”

“That’s not what I said. You would both be best advised to leave here. Even Waylander cannot defeat all who are coming against him.”

“Don’t underestimate him, tinker,” she warned.

“I don’t,” he replied. “But I am an old man, and I know how time makes dotards of us all. Once I was young, fast, and strong. But slowly, like water eating at stone, time removes our speed and our strength. Waylander is not a young man. Those hunting him are in their prime.”

She nodded and looked away. “So you advise us to run?”

“Another place, under another name. Yes.”

“Tell me of the others,” she said.

And he did, relating all he had heard of Belash, Courail, Senta, and many more. She listened, mostly in silence but occasionally interrupting him with pertinent questions. At last satisfied that she had drained his knowledge, she stood.

“I will prepare you some breakfast,” she said. “I think you have earned it.”

“What did you gain from my stories?” he asked her.

“It is important to know your enemy,” she answered him.

“Only with knowledge can you ensure victory.”

Ralis said nothing.

Waylander sat quietly on the rough-hewn platform, high in the oak, staring out to the west, over the rolling plains toward the distant towers of Kasyra. Some four miles to his left he could see the Corn Road, a ribbon of a trail leading from the Sentran Plain south toward Drenan. There were few wagons now, the corn having been gathered and stored or shipped to markets in Mashrapur or Ventria. He saw several horsemen on the road, all riding toward Kasyra and the surrounding villages.

A cool breeze rustled the leaves around him, and he settled back, his mind drifting through the libraries of memory, sifting, seeking. His early training as a soldier in the Sathuli Wars told him that a static enemy was one facing defeat. The forest and mountains of Skeln boasted many caves and hiding places, but
a persistent enemy would find him, for a man had to hunt to eat, and in hunting he left tracks. No, the soldier he had been knew only one way to win—attack!

But how? And where?
And against whom?

The Blood Money had been placed in the Guild. Even if he were to find the man who had ordered the kill and slay him, the hunt would go on.

The wind picked up, and Waylander pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his frame. The run had been hard, his aging muscles complaining at the severity of the exercise, his lungs on fire, his heartbeat a pounding drum. Stretching out his right leg, he rubbed at the still-burning muscles of his calf and thought of all he knew about the Guild.

Fifteen years earlier the Guild had approached Waylander, offering to broker his contracts. He had refused them, preferring to work alone. In those days the Guild had been a mysterious, shadowy organization, operating in secret. Its rules were simple. First, all killings were to be accomplished with blade, shaft, or knotted rope. Murder by poison or fire was not allowed; the Guild wished for no innocent victims to be slain. Second, all monies were paid direct to the Guild and a signed document was placed with the patriarch, giving reasons for the contract. Such reasons could not include matters of the heart or religious quarrels.

In theory a cuckolded husband could not hire an assassin to murder his wife, her lover, or both. In practice, of course, such niceties never applied. As long as the contractor declared his reasons as being business or political, no questions were asked. Under Karnak the trade had become if not morally acceptable at least more legitimate. Waylander smiled. By allowing the Guild to operate openly, the financially beleaguered Karnak had found yet another source of taxable income. And in times of war such income was vital to pay soldiers, armorers, merchants, shipbuilders, masons … the list was endless.

Waylander stood and stretched his aching back. How many would come against him? The Guild would have other contracts to meet. They could not afford to send all their fighters scouring the country for news of him. Seven? Ten? The best would not come first. They would sit back and watch while lesser men began the hunt, men like Kreeg.

And were they already there, hidden, waiting?

He thought of Miriel, and his stomach tightened. She was strong and lithe, skilled with all weapons. But she was young and had never fought warriors blade to blade.

Removing his cloak, Waylander rolled it and looped it over his shoulder, tying it to his knife belt. The cold wind bit into his naked chest, but he ignored it as he climbed down the tree. His eyes scanned the undergrowth, but there was nothing to be seen. Swiftly he leapt from the lowest branch, landing lightly on the moss-covered earth.

The first move would have to be left to the enemy. That fact galled him, but having accepted it, he pushed it from his mind. All he could do was prepare himself. You have fought men and beasts, demons and Joinings, he told himself. And you are still alive while your enemies are dust.

I was younger then, came a small voice from his heart.

Spinning on his heel, he swept a throwing blade from its forearm sheath and sent it flashing through the air to plunge home into the narrow trunk of a nearby elm.

Young or old, I am still Waylander.

Miriel watched the old man make his way slowly toward the northwest and the distant fortress of Dros Delnoch. His pack was high on his shoulders, his white hair and beard billowing in the breeze. He stopped at the top of a rise, turned, and waved. Then he was gone. Miriel wandered back through the trees, listening to the birdsong, enjoying the leaf-broken sunlight dappling the path. The mountains were beautiful in the autumn, leaves of burnished gold, the last fading blooms of summer, the mountainsides glowing green and purple, all seemingly created just for her pleasure.

Coming to the brow of a hill, she paused, her eyes scanning the trees and the paths wending down to the Sentran Plain. A figure moved into sight, a tall man wearing a cloak of green. The cold of a remembered winter touched her skin, making her shiver, her hand moving to the hilt of the short sword at her side. The green cloak identified him as the assassin Morak. Well, this was one killer who would not live to attack her father.

Miriel stepped into sight and stood waiting as the man
slowly climbed toward her. As he approached, she studied his face: his broad, flat cheekbones and scarred and hairless brows, a nose flattened and broken, a harsh gash of a mouth. The chin was square and strong, the neck bulging with muscle.

He paused before her. “The path is narrow,” he said politely enough. “Would you be so kind as to move aside.”

“Not for the likes of you,” she hissed, surprised that her voice remained steady, her fear disguised.

“Is it customary in these parts to insult strangers, girl? Or is it that you rely on gallantry to protect you?”

“I need nothing to protect me,” she said, stepping back and drawing her sword.

“Nice blade,” he said. “Now put it away lest I take it from you and spank you for your impudence.”

Her eyes narrowed, anger replacing fear, and she smiled.

“Draw your sword and we’ll see who suffers,” she told him.

“I do not fight girls,” he replied. “I am seeking a man.”

“I know whom you seek and why. But to get to him you must first pass me. And that will not be easy with your entrails hanging to your ankles.” Suddenly she leapt forward, the point of her blade stabbing toward his belly. He swayed aside, his arm flashing up and across, the back of his hand cannoning against her cheek. Miriel stumbled and fell, then rolled to her feet, her face burning from the slap.

The man moved to the right, slipping the thong from his green cloak and laying the garment over a fallen tree. “Who taught you to lunge like that?” he asked. “A farmer, perhaps? Or a herdsman? That is not a hoe you are holding. The thrust should always be disguised and used after a riposte or counter.” He drew his sword and advanced on her. Miriel did not wait for his attack but moved in to meet him, thrusting again, this time at his face. He blocked the blow and spun on his heel, his shoulder thudding into her chest and hurling her from her feet.

She sprang up and rushed in, slashing the blade toward his neck. His sword swept up, blocking the blow, but this time she spun and leapt, her booted foot cracking against his chin. She expected him to fall, but he merely staggered, righted himself, and spit blood from his mouth.

“Good,” he said softly. “Very good. Swift and in perfect balance. Perhaps there is something to you, after all.”

“You’ll never know,” she told him, launching an attack of blistering speed, aiming cuts and thrusts to face and body. Each one he blocked and never once made the riposte. At last she fell back, confused and dismayed. She could not breach his defenses, but what was more galling was that he made no attempt to breach hers.

“Why will you not fight me?” she asked him.

“Why should I?”

“I mean to kill you.”

“Do you have a reason for this hostility?” he inquired, the ugly gash of a mouth breaking into a smile.