Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf

13

Black and grey vultures, their bellies distended, hobbled on the plain. Some still squabbled over the carcasses that lay around the ruined tents. Crows had also gathered, and these darted in among the vultures, their sharp beaks pecking at unresisting flesh. Smoke spiralled lazily from the burning tents, creating a grey pall that hung over the scene of the massacre.

Angel guided his horse down on to the plain. The glutted vultures closest to the horsemen waddled away, the others ignoring the newcomers.

Belash and Shia rode alongside Angel. 'These were Green Monkey tribe,' said Belash. 'Not Wolves.' Vaulting from the saddle he moved among the bodies.

Angel did not dismount. To his left was a small circle of bodies, the men on the outside, women and children within. Obviously the last of the warriors had died defend­ing their families. One woman had covered her baby's body with her own, but the broken lance that jutted from her back had thrust through the infant she shielded.

'Must be more than a hundred dead,' said Senta. Angel nodded. To his right the bodies of five infants lay where they had been thrown against a wagon, their heads crushed. Blood stained the rim of the wagon-wheel, and it was all too obvious how the babes had been killed.

Belash walked back to where Angel sat his mount. 'More than a thousand soldiers,' he said. 'Heading for the mountains.'

'Wanton slaughter,' whispered Angel.

'Yes,' agreed Belash. 'So they can't be all bad, eh?'

Angel felt a piercing stab of shame as he heard his own words repeated back to him, but he said nothing and tugged on the reins, galloping his horse back up the hillside to where Miriel waited. Her face was the colour of wood-ash and she was gripping the pommel of her saddle, her knuckles bone-white. 'I can feel their pain,' she said. 'I can feel it, Angel. I can't close it out!'

'Then don't try,' he told her.

She let out a shuddering sigh, and huge tears formed, spilling to her cheeks. Dismounting, Angel lifted her from the saddle, holding her close as wracking sobs shuddered her frame. 'It is all in the land,' she said. 'All the memories. Soaked in blood. The land knows.'

He rubbed her back and stroked her hair. 'It's seen blood before, Miriel. And they can't be hurt any more.'

'What kind of men could do this?' she stormed, anger replacing her sorrow.

Angel had no answer. To kill a man in battle he understood, but to lift a baby by its heels and … he shuddered. It passed all understanding.

Belash, Shia and Senta rode up the hill. Miriel wiped her eyes and looked up at Belash. 'The soldiers are between us and the mountains,' she said. "This is your land. What do you advise?'

'There are paths they will not know,' he told her. 'I will lead you – if you still wish to go on.'

'Why would I not?' she countered.

'There will be no time for tears, woman, where we shall ride. Only swords and true hearts.'

She smiled at him then, a cold smile, and mounted her horse. 'You lead, Belash. We will follow.'

'Why are you doing this?' asked Shia. 'We are not your people, and old Hard-to-Kill hates the Nadir. So tell me why.'

'Because Kesa Khan asked me,' said Miriel.

'I will accept that,' the girl said, after a moment. 'But what of you?' She turned her gaze to Angel and Senta.

Senta chuckled and drew his sword. 'This blade,' he said, 'was specially made for me by a master armourer. It was a gift, lovely. He came to me one day and presented it. No man has ever bested me with a sword. I'm rather proud of that. But, you know, I didn't ask the armourer about the quality of the steel, or the amount of care that went into its crafting. I just accepted the gift and thanked him for it. You understand?'

'No,' she answered. 'What has that to do with my question?'

'Like trying to teach mathematics to a fish,' said Senta, shaking his head.

Angel edged his horse forward and leaned close to Shia. 'Let's put it this way, lady. He and I are the finest swordsmen you'll ever see, but our reasons for being here are none of your damned business!'

Shia nodded solemnly. 'That is true,' she admitted, no trace of rancour in her voice.

Senta laughed aloud. 'You should have been a diplomat, Angel.' The gladiator merely grunted.

Belash led the way to the east and the distant mountains, Miriel riding behind with Shia, Angel alongside Senta bringing up the rear. Dark clouds loomed above the peaks and lightning flashed like a jagged spear from earth to sky. The sound of thunder followed almost instantly.

'The mountains are angry,' Belash told Miriel.

'So am I,' she replied. A howling easterly wind blew sheets of rain across the barren, featureless land, and soon the riders travelled hunched in their saddles, drenched through.

For several hours they rode, until at last the sheer walls of the Mountains of the Moon loomed above them. The rain died down and Belash rode on ahead, angling back towards the south, scanning the forbidding peaks and the open steppes to the north. They had seen no soldiers, but now, with the clouds clearing, the smoke of many campfires could be seen in the distance, drifting up to merge with the grey sky.

'This is the secret path,' said Belash, pointing to the mountain face.

'There's no way through,' said Angel, gazing up at the black, basaltic wall of rock. But Belash rode up a short scree slope – and vanished. Angel blinked. 'Shemak's balls!' he whispered.

Miriel urged her mount up the slope, the others follow­ing. Virtually invisible from the outside there was a wide crack in the face, some four feet wide, leading to a shining tunnel. Miriel rode in, Angel behind her. There was scarcely a finger's breadth of space between thigh and wall on both sides, and several times the riders had to lift their legs up on to the saddle in order for their mounts to squeeze through. The walls loomed around them and Angel felt his heartbeat quickening. Above them huge boulders were clustered, having fallen and wedged together precariously.

Senta spoke. 'If a butterfly were to land on that mass it would all come tumbling down.' His voice echoed up into the crack. A low groan came from above them and black dust filtered down through the rocks.

'No speaking!' whispered Shia.

They rode on, emerging at last on a wide ledge over­looking a bowl-shaped crater. More than a hundred tents were pitched there. Belash touched heels to his horse and galloped down the slope.

'I think we're home,' said Senta.

From this high vantage point Angel could see the vastness of the steppes beyond the mountains, brown and arid, great folds across the land, rippling hills, humped-back ridges, as far as the eye could see. It was a hard, dry land and yet, as the sun dipped below the storm clouds, Angel saw in the steppes a relentless beauty that spoke to his warrior's heart. It was the beauty of a sword-blade, strong and unyielding. There were no fields or meadows, no silver streams. Even the hills were sharp and unwelcom­ing. And the voice of the land whispered to him.

Be strong or die, it said.

The mountains reared around him like a jagged black crown, the tents of the Nadir seeming fragile, almost insubstantial against the eternal power of the rocks on which they stood.

Angel shivered. Senta was right.

They were home.

Altharin was angry. He had been angry since the Emperor had given him this command. Where was the glory in wiping out vermin? Where was the advancement? Within days the main body of the army would be filing through Sathuli lands to invade the Drenai, sweeping across the Sentran Plain, meeting the Drenai sword to sword, lance to lance.

But no. Not for Altharin. He gazed up at the looming black peaks and wrapped his fur-lined cloak more tightly about his long, lean frame.

What a place!

Basaltic rocks, jagged and sharp. No horses could ride here – the lava beds cut their hooves to ribbons. And men on foot had to make long, lung-bursting climbs before reaching the enemy. He glanced to his left where the hospital tents had been erected. Eighty-seven dead so far, in five miserable days.

Turning he strolled back to his own tent, where an iron brazier glowed with hot coals. Loosening his cloak he cast it over a canvas-backed chair. His manservant, Becca, bowed low.

'Mulled wine, sir?'

'No. Send for Powis.' The man scurried from the tent.

Altharin had suspected this assignment would not be as easy as the Emperor believed. Surround and exterminate a few hundred Nadir, then rejoin the main army at the southern camp. Altharin shook his head. The first attack had gone well. The Green Monkeys had sat and watched as the Gothir lancers rode in, and only when the killing began did they recognise that death was upon them. But when the scouts reached the camp of the Wolves they found it deserted, the tracks leading off into these cursed mountains.

Altharin sighed. Tomorrow the Brotherhood would arrive, and his every move would be watched and reported back, his actions questioned, his strategies derided. I cannot win here, he thought.

The tent-flap opened and Powis ducked into the interior. 'You called for me, sir?'

Altharin nodded. 'You have gathered the reports?'

'Not quite all of them, sir,' answered the young man. 'Bernas is with the surgeons. He has a nasty wound to his face and shoulder. And Gallis is still on the peak, trying to force a path through from the north.'

'What have you learned from the others?'

'Well, sir, we have found only three routes through to the interior. All are defended by archers and swordsmen. The first is narrow and the men can move only two abreast. This makes them easy targets, not just for arrows, but rocks hurled from above. The second is some three hundred paces north. It is fairly wide, but the Nadir have moved rocks and boulders across it, making a rough, but effective wall. We lost fourteen men there this morning. The last route is the one Gallis is trying to force. He has three hundred men with him. I don't know yet what success he has enjoyed.'

'Numbers?' snapped Altharin.

'Twenty-one killed today, slightly more than forty wounded.'

'Enemy losses?'

'Difficult to say, sir.' The young man shrugged. 'Men tend to exaggerate such matters. They claim to have killed a hundred Nadir. I would guess the figure is less than half, perhaps a quarter of that.'

The manservant, Becca, ducked inside the tent and bowed. 'The Lord Gallis is returning, sir.'

'Send him to me,' ordered Altharin.

Moments later a tall, wide-shouldered man entered. He was around forty years of age, dark-eyed and black-bearded. His face was streaked with sweat and smeared with black, volcanic dust. His grey cloak was slashed and grime-covered, and there were several dents in his em­bossed iron breastplate.

'Make your report, Cousin,' said Altharin.

Gallis cleared his throat, removed his white plumed iron helm, and moved to the folding table on which sat a wine jug and several goblets of copper and silver. 'With your permission?' he croaked.

'Of course.'

The officer filled a goblet and drained it at a single swallow. "The cursed dust is everywhere,' he said. He took a deep breath. 'We lost forty-four men. The pass is narrow at the base, flaring out above. We forced our way some two hundred paces towards their camp.' He rubbed at his eyes, smearing black ash across his brow. 'Resistance was strong, but I thought we would get through.' He shook his head. 'Then, at the narrowest point, the renegades struck.'

'Renegades?' queried Altharin.

'Aye, Cousin. Drenai or Gothir traitors. Two swords­men, unbelievably skilful. Behind them, above and to the right, was a young woman with a bow. She was dressed in black. Every arrow found its mark. Between her and the swordsmen I lost fifteen men in that one place. And high above us, on both sides, the Nadir sent rocks and boulders down upon us. I ordered the men to pull back, to prepare for a second thrust. Then Jarvik lost his temper and ran at the swordsmen, challenging them. I tried to stop him.' Gallis shrugged.

'They killed him?'

'Yes, Cousin. But I wish they had shot him. As it was one of the swordsmen, the ugliest fellow I've ever seen, stepped out and accepted his challenge.'

'You're not telling me he defeated Jarvik in single combat?'

'That's exactly what I am saying, Cousin. Jarvik cut him, but the man was unstoppable.'

'I can't believe it!' said Powis, stepping forward. 'Jarvik won the Silver Sabre contest last spring.'

'Believe it, boy,' snapped Gallis. Turning to Altharin the officer shook his head once more. 'No one was in a mood to continue the attack after that. I left a hundred men to hold the position and brought the rest back.'

Altharin swore, then moved to a second folding table on which maps were spread. 'This is largely unexplored territory,' he said, 'but we do know there are few sources of food within the mountains – especially in winter.

'Normally we would starve them out, but that is not what the Emperor has ordered. Suggestions, gentlemen?'

Gallis shrugged. 'We have the numbers to eventually wear them down. We must just keep attacking on all three fronts. Eventually we must break through.'

'How many will we lose?' asked Altharin.

'Hundreds,' admitted Gallis.

'And how will that look back in Gulgothir? The Emperor sees this as a short, punitive raid. And we all know who arrives tomorrow.'

'Send the Brotherhood in when they get here,' said Gallis. 'Let's see how far their sorcery will carry them.'

'I have no control over the Brotherhood, more's the pity. What I do know, however, is that our reputations and our futures are in the balance here.'

'I agree with that, Cousin. I'll order the attacks to continue throughout the night.'

'Stop grumbling,' said Senta, as the curved needle once more pricked under the flesh of Angel's shoulder, bringing together the flaps of the wound.

'You are enjoying this, you bastard!' retorted Angel.

'How cruel!' Senta chuckled. 'But fancy letting a Gothir farmboy fool you with a riposte counter.'

'He was good, damn you!'

'He moved with all the grace of a sick cow. You should be ashamed of yourself, old man.' Senta completed the last of ten stitches, and bit off the twine. 'There. Better than new.'

Angel glanced down at the puckered wound. 'You should have been a seamstress,' he muttered.

'Just one of my many talents,' replied Senta, rising and moving out of the cave and staring down over the mountainside. From the cave mouth he could hear the distant screams of wounded men, the echoing clash of war. The stars were bright in a clear sky and a cold wind was hissing over the peaks and crags. 'We can't hold this place,' he said, as Angel moved alongside him.

'We're doing well enough so far.'

Senta nodded. 'There are too many of them, Angel. And the Nadir are relying on the wall across the centre pass. Once the soldiers breach that. . .'He spread his hands.

Two Nadir women made their way across the open ground bearing bowls of clotted cheese. They stopped before the Drenai warriors, eyes averted, and laid the bowls on the ground before them, departing as silently as they had come.

'Really welcome here, aren't we?' observed Senta.

Angel shrugged. There were more than a hundred tents dotted around the giant crater and from the high cave the two men could see Nadir children playing in the moonlight, running and sending up clouds of black, volcanic dust. To the left a line of women were moving into the deep caves carrying wooden buckets, gathering water from artesian wells deep below the mountains.

'Where tomorrow?' asked Angel, sitting down with his back to the rocks.

'The wall, I think,' said Senta. 'The other two passes are easily defended. They'll come at the wall.' A shadow moved to the right. Senta chuckled. 'He's back, Angel.'

The gladiator swore and glanced around. A small boy of around nine years of age was squatting on his haunches watching them. 'Go away!' roared Angel, but the child ignored him. 'I hate the way he just stares,' snapped Angel. The boy was thin, almost skeletal, his clothes threadbare. He wore an old goatskin tunic from which most of the hair had long since vanished, and a pair of dark leggings, torn at the knees and frayed at the waist. His eyes were slanted and black, and they stared unblinkingly at the two men. Angel tried to ignore him. Lifting the bowl of cheese he dipped his fingers into the congealed mass and ate. 'Horse droppings would taste better than this,' he said.

'It is an acquired taste,' agreed Senta.

'Damned if I can eat it.' He swung to the boy. 'You want some?' He did not move. Angel offered him the bowl. The child licked his lips, but remained where he was. Angel shook his head. 'What does he want?' he asked, placing the bowl on the ground.

'I've no idea – but he's obviously fascinated by you. He followed you today, mimicking your walk. Quite funny, really. I hadn't noticed it before, but you move like a sailor. You know, rolling gait.'

'Any more of my habits you'd like to criticise?'

'Too many to mention.'

Angel stood and stretched. The child immediately imitated him. 'Stop that!' said Angel, leaning forward, hands on hips. The tiny figure adopted the same stance. Senta's laughter pealed out. 'I'm going to get some sleep,' said Angel, turning his back on the boy and re-entering the cave.

Senta remained where he was, listening to the faint sounds of battle. The boy edged closer and snatched the bowl, backing away to the shadows to eat. For a while Senta dozed, then he heard movement on the mountain­side. He was instantly awake. Belash climbed to the cave mouth.

'They have pulled back,' he said, squatting down beside the swordsman. 'No more now until the dawn, I think.' Senta glanced to where the boy had been, but only the empty bowl remained. 'We killed many,' said Belash, with grim satisfaction.

'Not enough. There must be more than three thousand of them.'

'Many more,' agreed Belash. 'And others are coming. It will take time to kill them all.'

'Ever the optimist.'

'You think we cannot win? You do not understand the Nadir. We are born to fight.'

'I have no doubts concerning the skills of your people, Belash. But this place is ultimately indefensible. How many fighters can you muster?'

'This morning there were three hundred and seventy. . . three,' he said, at last.

'And tonight?'

'We lost maybe fifteen.'

'Wounded?'

'Another thirty . . . but some of these can fight again.'

'How many altogether – during the last four days?'

Belash nodded glumly. 'I understand what you are saying. We can hold for maybe eight . . . ten more days. But we will kill many before then.'

'That's hardly the point, my friend. We must have a secondary line of defence. Further into the mountains perhaps.'

'There is nowhere.'

'When we rode down here I saw a valley to the west. Where does it lead?'

'We cannot go there. It is a place of evil and death. I would sooner die here, cleanly and with honour.'

'Fine sentiments, I'm sure, Belash. But I'd as soon not die anywhere quite yet.'

'You do not have to stay,' pointed out Belash.

'True,' agreed Senta, 'but, as my father so often points out, stupidity does tend to run in our family.'

High above the mountains, linked to the spirit of Kesa Khan, Miriel floated beneath the stars. Below her, on the moonlit plain were the tents of the Gothir, erected in five lines of twenty, neat and rectangular, evenly spaced. To the south were a score of picket lines where the horses were tethered, and to the east a latrine pit, exactly thirty feet long. One hundred camp fires were burning brightly, and sentries patrolled the camp's perimeter.

'A methodical people,' pulsed the voice of Kesa Khan. 'They call themselves civilised because they can build tall castles and pitch their tents with geometrical precision, but from here you can see the reality. Ants build in the same way. Are they civilised?'

Miriel said nothing. From this great height she could see both the tiny camp of the Nadir and the might of the Gothir attackers. It was dispiriting. Kesa Khan's laughter rippled out. 'Never concern yourself with despair, Miriel. It is always the weapon of the enemy. Look at them! Even from here you can feel their vanity.'

'How can we defeat them?'

'How can we not?' he countered. 'There are millions of us, and but a few of them. When the Uniter comes they will be swept away like grass-seeds.'

'I meant now.'

'Ah, the impatience of youth! Let us see what there is to be seen.'

The stars spun and Miriel found herself looking down at a small campfire in a shallow cave on a mountainside. She saw Waylander sitting hunched before the flames, the hound, Scar, stretched out beside him. Waylander looked tired and she sensed his thoughts. He had been hunted, but had eluded the trackers, killing several. He was clear of Sathuli lands now, and was thinking about stealing a horse from a Gothir town some three leagues to the north.

'A strong man,' said Kesa Khan. 'The Dragon Shadow.'

'He is weary,' said Miriel, wishing she could reach out and hug the lonely man by the campfire.

The scene shifted to a city of stone set in the mountains, and a deep dungeon where a large man was chained to a dank, wet wall. 'You treacherous cur, Galen,' said the prisoner.

A tall, thin warrior in the red cloak of a Drenai lancer stepped forward, taking hold of the prisoner's hair and wrenching back the head. 'Enjoy your insults, you whore­son! Your day is over, and harsh words are all you have now. Yet they will avail you nothing: tomorrow you travel in chains to Gulgothir.'

'I'll come for you, you bastard!' swore the prisoner. 'They won't hold me!' The thin warrior laughed, then bunched his fist and struck the helpless man three times in the face, splitting his lip. Blood flowed to his chin and his one pale eye focused on the red-cloaked soldier. 'I suppose you'll tell Asten we were betrayed, but you managed to escape?'

'Yes. Then, when the time is right, I'll kill the peasant. And the Brotherhood will rule in Drenan. How does that make you feel?'

'It should be an interesting meeting. I'd like to be there to see you telling Asten how I was captured.'

'Oh, I shall tell it well. I shall speak of your enormous bravery, and how you were slain. It will bring a tear to his eye.'

'Rot in hell!' said the prisoner.

Miriel felt the close presence of Kesa Khan and the old shaman's voice whispered into her mind. 'You know who this is?'

'No.'

'You are gazing upon Karnak the One-Eyed, Lord Protector of the Drenai. He does not look mighty now, chained in a Sathuli dungeon. Can you feel his emotions?'

Miriel concentrated, and the warm rush of Karnak's anger swept over her. 'Yes. I can feel it. He is picturing his tormentor being killed by a soldier with red hair.'

'Yes. But there is something else to consider, girl. There is no despair in Karnak, yes? Only anger and the burning desire for revenge. His conceit is colossal, but so is his strength. He has no fear of the chains, or the enemies around him. Already he is planning, building his hopes. Such a man can never be discounted.'

'He is a prisoner, unarmed and helpless. What can he do?' asked Miriel.

'Let us return to the mountains. I am tiring. And tomorrow the real enemy will show himself. We must be ready to face the evil they will unleash.' All light faded in an instant and Miriel opened the eyes of her body and sat up. The fire in the cave had burned low. Kesa Khan added wood to the dying flames and stretched, the bones of his back creaking and cracking. 'Aya! Age is no blessing,' he said.

'What is this evil you spoke of?' asked Miriel.

'In a moment, in a moment! I am old, child, and the transition from spirit to flesh takes a little time. Let me gather my thoughts. Talk to me!'

She looked at the wizened old man. 'What do you wish me to talk about?'

'Anything!' he snapped. 'Life, love, dreams. Tell me which of the two men you wish to bed!'

Miriel reddened. 'Such thoughts are not for idle chatter,' she scolded.

He cackled and fixed her with a piercing gaze. 'Foolish girl! You cannot make up your mind. The young one is witty and handsome, but you know his love is fickle. The older one is like the oak, powerful and enduring, but you feel his lovemaking would lack excitement.'

'If you already know my thoughts, why ask me?'

'It entertains me. Would you like my advice?'

'No.'

'Good. I like a woman who can think for herself.' He sniffed and reached for one of the many clay pots beside the fire, dipping his finger into the contents and scooping a pale grey powder into his mouth. He closed his eyes and sighed. 'Yes . . . yes . . .' He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Miriel leaned forward. His pupils had all but dis­appeared and the irises had changed from dark dark brown to pale blue. 'I am Kesa Khan,' he whispered, his voice lighter, friendlier. 'And I am Lao Shin, the spirit of the mountains. And I am Wu Deyang, the Traveller. I am He Who Sees All.'

'The powder is narcotic?' asked Miriel softly.

'Of course. It opens the window of worlds. Now listen to me, Drenai girl. You are brave, of that there is no question. But tomorrow the dead will walk again. Do you have the heart to face them?'

She licked her lips. 'I am here to help you,' she answered.

'Excellent. No false bravado. I will show you how to armour yourself. I will teach you to summon weapons as you need them. But the greatest weapon you possess is the courage in your heart. Let us hope that the Dragon Shadow has taught you well, for if he has not you will bed neither of those fine warriors. Your soul will wander the Grey Paths for eternity.'

'He taught me well,' said Miriel.

'We shall see.'

With the hound loping off ahead Waylander moved on to the boulder-strewn plain. There were few trees here, and the land sloped gently downward towards a white stone village by a river bank. A horse pasture was fenced off at the north of the village and to the south sheep grazed on the last of the autumn grass. It was a small settlement, built without walls, evidence of the longstanding agreement between Gothir and Sathuli. There were no raids here. It struck Waylander as strange that the Gothir could treat the Sathuli so well and the Nadir so badly. Both were nomadic tribes which had moved slowly down from the north and east. Both were warrior races, who worshipped different gods from the Gothir, and yet they were perceived as opposites. The Sathuli, in Gothir tales, were proud, intelligent and honourable. The Nadir, on the other hand, were seen as base, treacherous and cunning. All his adult life Waylander had moved among the tribes and could find no evidence to support the Gothir view.

Save, perhaps, for the sheer numbers of Nadir who roamed the steppes. The Sathuli posed no threat, whereas the Nadir, in their millions, were a future enemy to be feared.

He shrugged away such considerations and looked for the hound. It was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and scanned the slopes. There were many boulders and the dog was probably scratching at a rabbit burrow. Waylander smiled and walked on. It was cold, the weak sunshine unable to counter the biting wind. He pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his shoulders.

The Sathuli would remember the chase as they sang the Songs of Passing over the hunters who would not return. He thought back to the boy who had first tried to ambush him, and was pleased that he had not killed him. As to the others, well, they had made their choices and he regretted their deaths not at all.

He could see people moving in the village below, a shepherd with a long crook striding up the hill, a dog at his side, several women at the main well, drawing buckets of cool water, children playing by the horse pasture fence. It was a peaceful scene.

He strode on, the path winding down between two huge boulders that jutted from the earth of the mountainside. In the distance a horse whinnied. He paused. The sound had come from the east. He turned and gazed up at the thin stand of trees on the slope. There were bushes growing there and he could not see a horse. Flicking back his cloak he lifted his crossbow, stringing it and sliding two bolts into place. There should be nothing to fear now, he chided himself. The Sathuli were unlikely to venture so far north. But he waited.

Where was Scar?

Moving forward more cautiously he approached the boulders. A figure stepped into sight, green cloak fluttering in the breeze, a bent bow in his hands. Waylander threw himself to the right as the arrow leapt from the string, slicing past his face. He struck the ground on his shoulder, the impact making his hand contract, loosing the bolts on the crossbow, which hammered into the soft earth of the slope. Rolling to his feet he drew his sabre.

The man in the green cloak hurled aside his bow, drawing his own blade. 'This is how it should be, sword to sword,' he said, smiling.

Waylander pulled free the thongs that held his cloak in place, allowing it to drop to the earth. 'You would be Morak,' he said softly.

'How gratifying to be recognised,' answered the swords­man, angling himself towards the waiting Waylander. 'I understand you are not at your best with a sabre, therefore I will give you a short lesson before killing you.'

Waylander leapt to the attack. Morak blocked and countered. The ringing of steel on steel echoed on the mountainside, the two sabres shining in the sunlight. Morak, in perfect balance fended off every attack, his blade licking out to open a shallow cut on Waylander's cheek. Waylander swayed back and sent a vicious slashing blow towards Morak's belly. The green-clad swordsman neatly sidestepped.

'I'd say you were better than average,' he told Way­lander. 'Your balance is good, but you are a little stiff in the lower back. It affects the lunge.'

Waylander's hand snapped forward, a black-bladed throwing knife flashing towards Morak's throat. The assassin's sabre swept up, deflecting the knife which clattered against one of the boulders. 'Very good,' said Morak. 'But you are dealing with a master now, Waylander.'

'Where is my dog?'

'Your dog? How touching! You stand at the point of death and you are concerned for a flea-bitten hound? I killed it, of course.'

Waylander said nothing. Backing away to more level ground he watched the swordsman follow. Morak was smiling now, but the smile did not reach the gleaming green eyes. 'I shall kill you with a remarkable lack of speed,' he said. 'A few cuts here and there. As the blood runs so your strength will fail. Do you think you will beg me for life?'

'I would doubt it,' said Waylander.

'All men beg, you know. Even the strongest. It depends only upon where the knife enters.' Morak leapt. Waylander's sabre parried the thrust, the blades clashing again and again. A second small cut appeared on Waylander's forearm. Morak laughed. 'There is no panic in you – not yet. I like that. What happened to that daughter of yours? By Heavens I'll yet enjoy her. Long legs, firm flesh. I'll make her squeal. Then I'll open her up from neck to belly!'

Waylander edged back and said nothing.

'Good! Good! I can't make you angry. That's rare! I shall enjoy finding your breaking point, Waylander. Will it come when I cut off your fingers? Or will it be when your manhood is sizzling on a fire?'

He lunged again, the blade slicing the leather of Waylander's tunic shirt just above the left hip. Waylander hurled himself forward, hammering his shoulder into the assassin's face. Morak fell awkwardly, but rolled to his feet before Waylander could bring his sword to bear. The blades clashed again. Waylander aimed a thrust at Morak's head, but the swordsman swayed aside, blocking the lunge and sending a riposte that flashed past Waylander's neck. Waylander backed away towards the boulders. Morak attacked, forcing his opponent further down the trail. Both men were sweating freely, despite the cold.

'You are game,' said Morak. 'I did not expect you to prove this resilient.'

Waylander lunged. Morak parried, then attacked in a bewildering series of thrusts and cuts that Waylander fought desperately to counter. Twice Morak's sabre pierced the upper chest of Waylander's tunic, the blade being turned aside by the chain-mail shoulder-guard. But the older man was tiring now, and Morak knew it. He stepped back. 'Would you like a little time to get your breath?' he asked, with a mocking grin.

'How did you find me?' said Waylander, grateful for the respite.

'I have friends among the Sathuli. After our . . . unfortunate . . . encounter back in the mountains I came here, seeking more warriors. I was with the Lord Sathuli when news of the hunt came in. The Lord Sathuli is most anxious to see you dead. He feels your journey across his lands is an insult to tribal pride. He would have sent more men – but he has other matters on his mind at the moment. Instead he paid me. By the way, would you like to know who hired the Guild to hunt you?'

'I already know,' Waylander told him.

'Oh, how disappointing. Still, I am by nature a kind-hearted man, so I will at least give you a little good news before I kill you. Even as we speak the Lord Protector of the Drenai lies chained in a Sathuli dungeon, ready to be delivered to the Emperor of the Gothir.'

'That's impossible!'

'Not at all. He was persuaded to meet with the Lord Sathuli, in a bid to prevent Gothir troops crossing tribal lands. He travelled with a small party of loyal soldiers and one, rather disloyal, officer. His men were slaughtered and Karnak taken alive. I saw him myself. It was quite comical. Unusual man – offered me a fortune to help him escape.'

'He obviously doesn't know you too well,' said Waylander.

'On the contrary, I have worked for him before – many times. He paid me to kill Egel.'

'I don't believe it!'

'Yes, you do – I can see it in your eyes. Ah well, recovered your breath? Good. Then let us see some blood!' Morak advanced, his blade lancing out. Waylander blocked, but was forced back, past the jutting boulders. Morak laughed. The lesson is now over,' he said. 'Time for the enjoyment to begin.'

A dark shadow moved behind him and Waylander saw the hound, Scar, pulling himself painfully forward on his front paws, his back legs limp and useless. An arrow had pierced his ribs and blood was dribbling from the huge jaws. Waylander edged to the left. Morak moved right. He had not seen the dying hound. Waylander leapt forward, sending a wild cut towards Morak's face. The assassin moved back a step – and Scar's huge jaws snapped shut on his right calf, the fangs sinking through skin, flesh and sinew. Morak screamed in pain. Waylander stepped in and rammed his sabre into the assassin's belly, ripping it up through the lungs.

'That's for the old man you tortured!' hissed Waylander. Twisting the blade he tore it free, disembowelling the swordsman. 'And that's for my dog!'

Morak fell to his knees. 'No!' he moaned. Then toppled sideways to the earth.

Casting aside his sword Waylander knelt by the hound, stroking its head. There was nothing he could do to save the beast. The arrow had pierced its spine. But he sat with it, cradling the huge head in his lap, speaking softly, his voice soothing, until the juddering breathing slowed and finally stopped.

Then he stood, gathered his crossbow, and walked to the stand of trees where Morak had hidden his horse.