Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf

11

Jahunda notched an arrow to his bowstring and waited for the rider to emerge from the trees. His fingers were cold, but his blood ran hot with the hunt. The Drenai had chosen his route with care, avoiding the wide, much-used paths, and holding to the narrow deer-trails. But even so Jahunda had spotted him, for the Lord Sathuli had ordered him to watch the south from Chasica Peak, and no one could enter Sathuli lands from the Sentran Plain without being observed from Chasica. It was a great honour to be so trusted – especially for a fourteen-year-old with no blood kills to his name. But the Lord Sathuli knows I will be a great warrior and hunter, thought Jahunda. And he chose me for this task.

Jahunda had sent up a signal smoke then clambered down from the peak, making his way carefully to the first ambush site. But the Drenai had cut to the right, angling up into the high pass. Hooking his bow over his shoulder Jahunda ran to the second site, overlooking the deer-trail. The Drenai must emerge here. He chose his arrow with care, and hoped he could make the kill before the others arrived. Then the horse would be his by right, and a fine beast it looked. He closed his eyes and listened for the soft clopping of hooves in the snow. Sweat was seeping from under his white burnoose and fear made his mouth dry. The Drenai was no merchant. This one was a careful man who knew where he was riding and the danger he was in. That he travelled here at all spoke well of his bravery, and his confidence. Jahunda was anxious that the first shaft should strike a mortal blow.

There was no sound from the snow-shrouded trees and Jahunda risked a glance around the boulder.

Nothing.

But the man had to be close. There was no other route.

Jahunda inched his way to the left and leaned out. Still nothing. Perhaps the rider had doubled back. Maybe he should have waited by the first site. Indecision rippled through him. The Drenai could be relieving himself against a tree, he told himself. Give it time! His heart was beating fast and he tried to calm himself. But the horse was magnificent! He could sell it and buy Shora a shawl of silk, and one of those bangles with the blue stones that Zaris sold at ridiculously high prices. Oh, how Shora would love him if he arrived at her father's house bearing such gifts. He would be an acclaimed warrior, a hunter, a defender of the land. It would hardly matter then that he could not yet grow a beard.

He heard the clop of hooves and swallowed hard. Wait! Be patient. He drew back on the string and glanced up at the sun. It would cast a shadow from high and to the right of the rider and from his hiding place behind the boulder Jahunda could time his attack perfectly. He licked his lips and watched for the shadow of the horse. As it drew alongside the boulder he stepped out, bow raised.

The saddle was empty. There was no rider.

Jahunda blinked. Something hard struck the back of his head and he fell to his knees, his bow falling from his fingers. 'I am dying!' he thought. And his last thoughts were of beautiful Shora.

He felt rough hands shaking him and slowly came to consciousness.

'What happened, boy?' asked Jitsan, the Lord Sathuli's chief scout.

He tried to explain, but one of the other hunters came up, tapping Jitsan's shoulder. 'The Drenai sent his horse toward then moved around behind the boy and clubbed him. He is heading for Senac Pass.'

'Can you walk?' Jitsan asked Jahunda.

'I think so.'

'Then go home, child.'

'I am ashamed,' said Jahunda, hanging his head.

'You are alive,' pointed out Jitsan, rising and moving off swiftly, the six hunters following him.

There would be no horse for the young Sathuli warrior now. No bangle. No shawl for Shora. He sighed and gathered up his bow.

Waylander dismounted, leading the gelding up the steep slope. Scar padded alongside him, not liking the cold snow under his paws. 'There's worse to come,' said the man.

He had seen the signal smoke and watched, with grim amusement, the antics of the young Sathuli sentry. The boy could not have been more than fourteen. Callow and inexperienced, he had run too swiftly for the ambush site, leaving footprints easily seen leading to the boulder behind which he hid. There was a time Waylander would have killed him. 'You're getting soft,' he scolded himself. But he did not regret the action.

At the top of the slope he halted, shading his eyes from the snow glare and seeking out the route to Senac Pass. It was twelve years since he had come this way, and that had been summer-time, the slopes of the mountains green and verdant. The wind was biting through his jerkin and he untied his fur-lined cloak from behind his saddle and unrolled it, fastening it into place with a brooch of bronze and a leather thong.

He studied the trail behind him then walked on, leading the gelding. The trail was narrow, wending its way down a snow-covered slope of scree and on to a long, twisting ledge no more than four feet wide. To the right was the mountain, to the left a dizzying drop into the valley some four hundred feet below. In summer the journey across the ledge had been fraught enough but now, ice-covered and treacherous . . .

You must be insane, he told himself. He started to walk, but the gelding held back. The wind was whistling across the mountain face and the horse wanted no part of such a venture.

'Come on, boy!' urged Waylander, tugging on the reins. But the gelding would not move. Behind the horse Scar let out a deep, menacing growl. The gelding leapt forward, almost sending Waylander over the edge. He swayed on the brink, but his hold on the reins saved him and he pulled himself back to safety. The ledge wound on around the mountain face for almost a quarter of a mile until, just beyond a bend, it was split by a steep scree slope leading down into the valley.

Waylander took a deep breath, and was just about to step on to the scree, when Scar growled again. The horse lurched forward, pulling the reins from Waylander's hand. The beast hit the scree head-first, and tumbled down the slope. An arrow flashed past Waylander's head. Spinning, he drew two knives. Scar leapt to attack the first Sathuli to come into sight around the bend behind them. The hound's great jaws snapped at the archer's face. Dropping his bow the warrior threw himself back, cannoning into a second man, who fell from the ledge, his scream echoing away. Scar hurled himself upon the first man, fangs locking to the man's forearm.

Waylander moved closer to the rock-face as a third Sathuli edged into sight. The warrior raised his tulwar over the hound. Waylander's arm snapped forward, the black-bladed knife slicing between the man's ribs. With a grunt he dropped the tulwar and fell to his knees, before toppling to his face in the snow.

'Here, Scar!' shouted Waylander. For a moment only the dog continued to rip and tear at the first Sathuli, but when Waylander called again it released its grip and backed away. Unhooking the small crossbow from his belt Waylander loaded it and waited. The man with the injured arm was lying on the brink of the precipice, breathing hoarsely. The other warrior was dead.

'Who is leader here?' called Waylander, in halting Sathuli.

'Jitsan,' came the reply. 'And I speak your tongue better than you do mine.'

'Do you like to wager?'

'On what?'

'On how long your friend there lives if you do not come for him and bind his wounds.'

'Speak plainly, Drenai!'

'I am passing through. I am no danger to the Sathuli. Nor am I a soldier. Give me your word the hunt will cease and I will leave here now. You can rescue your friend. If not, I wait. We fight. He dies.'

'If you wait you die,' shouted Jitsan.

'Even so,' answered Waylander. The injured man groaned and tried to roll himself from the ledge to certain death on the rocks below. It was a brave move, and Waylander found himself admiring the warrior. Jitsan called out to him in Sathuli and the man ceased his struggle.

'Very well, Drenai, you have my word.' Jitsan stepped into sight, his sword sheathed.

Waylander flicked the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings. 'Let's go, dog,' he said, and leapt to the scree, sliding down the slope on his haunches. Scar followed him instantly, tumbling and rolling past his master.

But Waylander had misjudged the speed of the descent and he lost his grip on the crossbow as he struck a hidden rock which catapulted him into the air, spinning and cartwheeling. Relaxing his muscles he rolled himself into a ball and prayed he would not strike a tree or a boulder.

At last the dizzying fall slowed and he came to a stop in a deep drift of snow. His body was bruised and aching, and two of his knives had fallen from their sheaths. Curiously his sword was still in its scabbard. He sat up. His head was spinning, and he felt a rush of nausea. After it had passed he pushed himself to his knees. As well as the two knives, his crossbow quiver was empty, his leggings were torn and his right thigh was gashed and bleeding.

To his right lay the gelding, its neck broken in the fall. Waylander took a long, deep breath, his fingers probing at his bruised ribs. Nothing seemed broken. Scar padded over to him, licking his face. The stitches on the dog's side had opened and a thin trickle of blood was oozing from the wound.

'Well, we made it, boy,' said Waylander. Slowly and with great care he stood. Several of his crossbow bolts and one of his knives lay nearby, close to the dead gelding. Gathering the weapons he searched around the snow for his knife, but could not find it. Scar ran back up the slope and returned with the crossbow in his jaws.

A second search left Waylander with twelve bolts and one knife recovered. The gash in his leg was not deep, requiring no stitches, but he bound the wound with a bandage taken from his saddlebag and then sat on a jutting rock and shared some dried meat with the hound.

High above him he saw the signal smoke. Reaching down he stroked Scar's huge head. 'You just can't trust the Sathuli,' he said. The hound twisted its head and licked the man's hand.

Waylander stood and surveyed the valley. The snow was deep here, but the way to Senac Pass lay open.

Lifting the food sack from the dead horse he set off towards the north.

Slowly the six hundred black-cloaked warriors filed into the huge hall, forming twenty ranks before the dais on which stood Zhu Chao and his six captains. Red lanterns glowed with crimson light and shadows flickered across the great curving beams of the high ceiling.

All was silent. Zhu Chao spread wide his arms, his caped gown arching down from his shoulders like the wings of a demon. 'The day is here, comrades!' he shouted. 'Tomorrow the Ventrians attack Purdol and the pass at Skein. Gothir troops will then march on the Sentran Plain. And five thousand soldiers will obliterate the Nadir wolves, bringing us the treasures of Kar-Barzac.

'Within the month all three great nations will be ruled by the Brotherhood. And we will have the power our strength and our faith deserves.

'The Days of Blood are here! The days when, for us, the only law will be to do as we will, wherever we choose.' A thunderous roar rose up from the ranks, but he quelled it with a swift wave of his hand. 'We are talking about power, comrades. The Elder Races did not understand the power they held. The oceans drank their cities, and their culture is all but lost to us.

'But there is one great centre of their might, named in all the grimoires. In the Mountains of the Moon lies the citadel of Kar-Barzac. The arcane strength of the Elders still flows there, and with it we will find not only the instruments to maintain our rule, but the secret of immortality. Win this war and we will live forever, our dreams made true, our lusts sated, our desires fulfilled.' This time he let the cheering mount, and stood arms folded, drinking in the adulation. Gradually the sound died away. Zhu Chao spoke again.

'To those who are chosen to ride against the Wolves I say this: kill them all, and their whores and their brats. Leave nothing alive. Burn their bodies and grind their bones to powder. Consign their dreams to the ashes of history!'

As the renewed cheering died down he strode from the dais, exiting the hall through a small side door. Followed by his captains he made his way to a suite of rooms in the western wing of the palace. Here he stretched himself out on a couch and bade his officers sit around him.

'The plans are all set?' he asked the first of his officers, Innicas, a wide-shouldered albino in his mid-forties, with a forked white beard and a jagged scar across his brow. His long hair was braided and his pink eyes, unblinking, shone with a cold light.

'Yes, lord. Galen will see Karnak delivered to us. He has convinced him to meet with the Sathuli chieftain. He will be captured and delivered alive to Gulgothir. But tell me, lord, why do we need him? Why not just slit his throat and be done with it?'

Zhu Chao smiled. 'Men like Karnak are rare indeed. They have power, deep elemental strength. He will be a worthy gift to Shemak, as will the Emperor. Two lords beneath the sacrificial knife. When has our master known such a sacrifice? And I shall enjoy watching both men beg for their lives.'

'And the Source priests?' enquired a second officer, a slim man with thinning, shoulder-length grey hair.

'Dardalion and his comical troop?' Zhu Chao gave a dry laugh. 'Tonight, Casta. Use sixty men. Destroy their souls as they sleep.'

'I am concerned, lord,' said Innicas, 'about the man, Waylander. Was he not allied with Dardalion many years ago?'

'He is a killer. No more, no less. He has no understand­ing of the mystic arts.'

'He slew nine of our warriors,' pointed out Casta.

'He has a step-daughter, Miriel. It is she who has Talent. And with him were two arena warriors named Senta and Angel. Also there was the renegade Belash. The timing of the attack was unfortunate, but they will not survive a second assault – that I promise you.'

'I mean no disrespect, sir, but this Waylander does seem to show a spectacular talent for survival,' said Innicas. 'Do we know where he is?'

'At this moment he is being pursued through Sathuli lands. He is wounded, alone – save for a mangy hound – and has little food and no water. The hunters are closing in. We shall see how far his talent for survival can be stretched.'

'And the girl?' asked the grey-haired Casta.

'At Dros Delnoch. But she will join Kesa Khan. She will be at Kar-Barzac.'

'You want her taken alive?' asked Melchidak.

'It matters not to me,' answered Zhu Chao, 'but if she is then give her to the men. Let them amuse themselves. When they are done, sacrifice her to the master.'

'You spoke, lord, of the power of the Elders and immortality,' said Casta. 'What awaits us at Kar-Barzac?'

Zhu Chao smiled. 'One day at a time, Casta. When the Nadir wolves are dead I will show you the Crystal Chamber.'

Ekodas lay in his pallet bed listening to the sounds of the night, the flapping of bats' wings beyond the open window, the sibilant sighing of the winds of winter. It was cold, and the single blanket did little to retain body heat.

In the next bed Duris was snoring. Ekodas lay awake, ignoring the cold, his thoughts focused on the Nadir woman, Shia. He wondered where she was, and whether she had found her brother. He sighed and opened his eyes. Moonlight was casting deep shadows from the rafters of the rough-wrought ceiling and a winter moth was flitting between the beams.

Closing his eyes once more Ekodas sought the freedom of flight. As usual this proved difficult, but at last he soared free of his body and floated alongside the moth, gazing down on his sleeping comrades. The moon was shining in a cloudless sky as he flew from the temple, and the country­side was bathed in spectral light.

'Are you restless, brother?' asked Magnic, appearing alongside him.

'Yes,' he answered.

'As am I. But it is silent here, and we are free of the flesh.' It was true and Ekodas acknowledged it. The world was a different place when viewed through spirit eyes, tranquil and beautiful, eternal and almost sentient. 'You spoke well, Ekodas. You surprised me.'

'I surprised myself,' he admitted. 'Though, as I am sure you are aware, I am not totally convinced – even by my own arguments.'

'I think none of us are truly sure,' said Magnic softly, 'but there must be balance. Without it harmony cannot be found. I fear the Brotherhood, and I loathe and despise all they stand for. You know why?'

'Tell me.'

'Because I long for such pleasures myself. Deep in me I can see the attraction of evil, Ekodas. We are stronger than normal men. Our Talents could earn us fame, riches and all the pleasures known to man. And in my quiet moments I know that I lust for these things.'

'You are not responsible for your desires,' said Ekodas. 'They are primal, a part of being human. Only if we act upon them do we sin.'

'I know that, but it is why I could not take up the staff. I could never be a priest of love, never. At some time in the future I would succumb to my desires. This is why the Thirty is for me. I have no future, save with the Source. You are different, my friend. You are strong. Like Dardalion once was.'

'You thought me a coward,' pointed out Ekodas.

Magnic smiled. 'Yes, but I was seeing only my own lack of courage. Transferring it to you.' He sighed. 'Now that our way is set I see everything differently. And now I must continue my watch.' Magnic vanished and Ekodas floated alone in the night sky. The temple below was grey and forbidding, its turrets rearing against the sky like upraised fists.

'It is still a fortress,' Shia had said. And so it was. Just like us, Ekodas realised. Prayer within, might without. There was comfort in the thought, for a fortress, no matter how many spears, swords and arrows were con­tained within it, could never be an offensive weapon.

He soared higher and to the north, through thin, misty clouds that were forming above the mountains. Below him now the mighty fortress of Dros Delnoch spanned the pass.

He floated down. On the last wall he saw a tall, dark-haired woman, sitting beside a handsome golden-haired man. The man reached out to take the woman's hand, but she drew back, turning her head to gaze up at Ekodas.

'Who are you?' she asked him, her spirit voice loud as thunder within him. Ekodas was astonished and suddenly disconcerted. Swiftly he flew high and away from the fortress. Such power! His mind reeled.

Just then a terrible scream filled his ears. Brief, agonis­ing, and then terminated. He sped for the temple.

A man appeared alongside him, a blade of fire in his hand. Ekodas twisted in the air, the sword hissing by him. He reacted without conscious thought, the long years of his training and Dardalion's endlessly patient tuition, coming together in an instant to save his life. 'In spirit form,' Dardalion had told them, 'we are naked and unarmed. But I will teach you to craft armour from faith, swords from courage and shields made from belief. Then you will stand against the demons of the dark, and the men who aspire to be like them.'

Ekodas armoured himself with a shining breastplate of silver, a glimmering shield appearing on his left forearm. He parried the next blow with his own sword of silver light.

His opponent was protected by black armour and a full-faced helm. Ekodas blocked a thrust then sent his own blade cleaving into the man's neck. The sword of light flashed through the dark armour like sunlight piercing a storm cloud. There was no blood. No scream of pain. His assailant merely disappeared without a sound. But Ekodas knew that wherever the man's body lay the heart had stopped beating, and only a silent, unmarked corpse would lie witness to the battle beneath the stars.

Ekodas flew on to the temple. 'Dardalion!' he pulsed, using all his power. 'Dardalion!'

Three opponents appeared around him. The first he slew with a slashing cut across the belly, the silver sword slicing through the dark armour with terrible ease. The second he killed with a riposte to the head. The third loomed behind him, blade raised.

Vishna appeared, lancing his sword through the man's back. More warriors appeared above the temple, and the Thirty gathered, silver against black, swords of light against blades of fire.

Ekodas fought on, his sword forming glittering arcs of white light as it clove into the enemy. Beside him Vishna battled with controlled fury. All around them the battle raged in an awful silence.

And then it was over.

Weary beyond anything he had ever experienced, Ekodas returned to his body and sat up. He reached over to Duris, but the man was dead. So too was Branic in the far bed.

Ekodas stumbled from the room, down to the hall. One by one the members of the Thirty gathered there. Twenty-three priests had survived the attack, and Ekodas looked from face to face, seeking out those to whom he was closest. Glendrin was alive. And Vishna. But Magnic was gone. It seemed only moments before he had been talking with the blond priest about life and desire. Now there was only a body to be buried, and they would never, in this world, speak again.

The full weight of sorrow descended upon Ekodas and he sank to the bench-seat, resting his elbows on the table. Vishna moved alongside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

'Your warning saved us, Ekodas,' he said.

'My warning?'

'You woke Dardalion. He made the Gather.'

Before Ekodas could respond Dardalion spoke up from the far end of the hall. 'My brothers, it is time to pray for the souls of our departed friends.' One by one he named them and many tears were shed as he talked of them. 'They are with the Source now, and are blessed. But we remain. Some days ago we asked for another sign. I think that we have just seen it. The Brotherhood are preparing to ride against the Nadir. It is my belief that we should be in the Mountains of the Moon to receive them. But that is only my view. What is the view of the Thirty?'

Ekodas rose. 'The Mountains of the Moon,' he said.

Vishna echoed the words, as did Glendrin, Palista, fat Merlon and all the surviving priests.

Tomorrow then,' said Dardalion. 'And now let us prepare the bodies of our friends for burial.'