Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf

3

Floating on a sea of pain Ralis knew he was dying; his arms were tied behind him, the skin of his chest was seared and cut, his legs broken. All his dignity had been stripped from him in the screams of anguish the knives and hot irons had torn from his soul. There was nothing of the man left, save one small flickering spark of pride.

He had told them nothing. Cold water drenched him, easing the pain of the burns and he opened his one remaining eye. Morak knelt before him, an easy smile on his handsome face.

'I can free you from this pain, old man,' he said. Ralis said nothing. 'What is he to you? A son? A nephew? Why do you suffer this for him? You have walked these mountains for what . . . fifty, sixty years? He's here and you know where he is. We will find him anyway, eventually.'

'He . . . will. . . kill you . . . all,' whispered Ralis.

Morak laughed, the others following his lead. Ralis smelt the burning of his flesh moments before the pain seared into his skull. But his throat was hoarse and bleeding from screaming and he could only utter a short, broken groan.

And suddenly, wonderfully, the pain passed, and Ralis heard a voice calling to him.

He rose from his bonds and flew towards the voice. 'I did not tell them, Father,' he shouted triumphantly. 'I did not tell them!'

'Old fool,' said Morak, as he stared at the corpse sagging against the ropes. 'Let's go!'

'Tough old man,' put in Belash as they left the glade. Morak rounded on the stocky Nadir tribesman.

'He made us waste half a day – and for what? Had he told us at the start, he would have walked off with ten, maybe twenty gold pieces. Now he's dead meat for the foxes and the carrion birds. Yes, he was tough. But he was also stupid!'

Belash's jet-black eyes stared up into Morak's face. 'He died with honour,' muttered the Nadir. 'And great will be his welcome in the Hall of Heroes.'

Morak's laughter welled out. 'The Hall of Heroes, eh? They must be getting short of men if they need to rely on elderly tinkers. What stories will he tell around the great table? How I sold a knife for twice its worth, or how I mended a broken cookpot? I can see there'll be some merry evenings ahead for all of them.'

'Most men mock what they can never aspire to,' said Belash, striding on ahead, his hand on his sword-hilt.

The words cut through Morak's good humour, and his hatred of the little Nadir welled anew. The Ventrian swung to face the nine men who followed him. 'Kreeg came to these mountains because he had information that Waylander was here. We'll split up and quarter the area. In three days we'll meet at the foot of that peak to the north, where the stream forks. Bans, you go into Kasyra. Ask about Kreeg, who he stayed with, where he drank. Find out where he got his information.'

'Why me?' asked the tall, sandy-haired young man. 'And what happens if you find him while I'm gone? Do I still get a share?'

'We all get a share,' promised Morak. 'If we find him and kill him before you get back I will see that the gold is held for you in Drenan. Can I be fairer than that?'

The man seemed unconvinced, but he nodded and walked away. Morak cast his eyes over the remaining eight men. All were woodsmen and proven warriors, men he had used before, tough and unhindered by morals. He despised them all, but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. No man needed to be wakened by a saw-edged blade rasping across his jugular. But Belash was the only one he hated. The tribesman was fearless and a superb killer with knife or bow. He was worth ten men on a hunt such as this. One day, though, Morak thought with grim relish, one day I will kill you. I will slide a blade into that flat belly, and rip out your entrails.

Organising the men in pairs he issued his instructions. 'If you come upon any dwellings, ask about a tall man and a young daughter. He may not be using the name Dakeyras, so seek out any widower who fits the description. And if you find him make no move. Wait until we are all together. You understand?'

The men nodded solemnly, then departed.

Ten thousand Raq in gold was waiting for the man who killed Waylander, but the money meant little to Morak. He had ten times that amount hidden away with merchants in Mashrapur and Ventria. What mattered was the hunt and the kill – to be the man who slew a legend.

He felt the sharp rise of anticipated pleasure, as he considered all he might do to fill Waylander's last hours with exquisite pain. There was the girl, of course. He could rape and kill her before Waylander's eyes. Or torture her. Or give her to the men, to use and abuse. Be calm, he told himself. Let the anticipation build. First you have to find him.

Swinging his leaf-green cloak about his shoulders he walked off in pursuit of Belash. The Nadir had made camp in a sheltered hollow and was kneeling upon his blanket, hands clasped in prayer, several old fingerbones, yellowed and porous, lying before him. Morak sat down on the other side of the fire. What a disgusting practice, he thought, carrying the bones of your father in a bag. Barbarians! Who would ever understand them? Belash finished his prayer and returned the bones to the pouch at his side.

'Your father have anything interesting to tell you?' asked Morak, his green eyes alight with amusement.

Belash shook his head. 'I do not speak with my father,' he said. 'He is gone. I speak to the Mountains of the Moon.'

'Ah yes, the mountains. Do they know where Waylander dwells?'

'They know only where each Nadir warrior rests.'

'Lucky them,' observed Morak.

'There are some matters you should not mock,' warned Belash. 'The mountains house the souls of all Nadir, past and future. And through them, if I am valiant, I will find the home of the man who killed my father. I shall bury my father's bones in that man's grave, resting on his chest. And he will serve my father for all time.'

'Interesting thought,' said Morak, keeping his voice neutral.

'You kol-isha think you know everything. You think the world was created for your pleasure, but you do not understand the land. You, you sit there and you breathe air and feel the cold earth beneath you, and you notice nothing. And why? Because you live your lives in cities of stone, building walls to keep at bay the spirit of the land. You see nothing. You hear nothing. You feel nothing.'

I can see the boil starting on your neck, you ignorant savage, thought Morak. And I can smell the stench from your armpits. Aloud he said: 'And what is the spirit of this land?'

'It is female,' answered Belash. 'Like a mother. She nourishes those who respond to her, giving them strength and pride. Like the old man you killed.'

'And she talks to you?'

'No, for I am the enemy of this land. But she lets me know she is there and watching me. And she does not hate me. But she hates you.'

'Why would that be true?' asked Morak, suddenly uncomfortable. 'Women have always liked me.'

'She reads your soul, Morak. And she knows it is full of dark light.'

'Superstition!' snapped Morak. 'There is no woman. There is no force in the world save that which is held in ten thousand sharp swords. Look at Karnak. He ordered the assassination of the great hero Egel, and now he rules in his place, revered, even loved. He is the force in the Drenai world. Does the lady love him?'

Belash shrugged. 'Karnak is a great man – for all his faults – and he fights for the land, so maybe she does. And no man truly knows whether Karnak ordered Egel's killing.'

I know, thought Morak, remembering the moment when he stood over the great man's bed and plunged the dagger into his right eye.

Oh yes, I know.

It was close to midnight when Waylander returned. Angel was sitting beside the fire, Miriel was asleep in the back room. Waylander lifted the lock-bar into place on the iron brackets of the door then undipped the quiver from his belt, laying it on the table beside his ebony crossbow. Angel glanced up. The only light in the room came from the flickering fire, and in its glow Waylander seemed an eldritch figure surrounded by dancing demon shadows.

Silently, Waylander lifted clear his black leather baldric, with its three throwing knives, then untied the two forearm sheaths, placing the weapons upon the table. Two more knives came from hidden scabbards in his knee-length moccasins. At last he walked to the fire and sat down opposite the former gladiator.

Angel sat back, his pale eyes watching the warrior, observing his tension.

'I see you fought Miriel,' said Waylander.

'Not for long.'

'No. How many times did you knock her down?'

'Twice.'

Waylander nodded. 'The tracks were not easy to read. Your footprints were deeper than hers, but they overlaid one another.'

'How did you know I knocked her down?'

'The ground was soft, and I found where her elbow struck the earth. You beat her easily.'

'I defeated thirty-seven opponents in the arena. You think a girl should best me?'

Waylander said nothing for a moment. Then: 'How good was she?'

Angel shrugged. 'She would survive against an unskilled swordsman, but the likes of Morak, or Senta? She'd be dead within seconds.'

'She's better than me,' said Waylander. 'And I would survive against them for longer than that.'

'She's better than you when you practise,' replied Angel. 'You and I both know the difference between that and the reality of combat. She is too tense. Danyal once told me of the test you set her. You recall?'

'How could I forget?'

'Well, were you to try it with Miriel she would fail. You know that, don't you?'

'Perhaps,' admitted Waylander. 'How can I help her?'

'You can't.'

'But you could.'

'Yes. But why would I?'

Waylander threw a fresh chunk of wood to the coals, remaining silent as the first yellow flames licked at the bark. His dark gaze swung to Angel. 'I am a rich man, Caridris. I will pay ten thousand in gold.'

'I notice you don't live in a palace,' remarked Angel.

'I choose to live here. I have merchants looking after my investments. I will give you a letter to one of them in Drenan. He will pay you.'

'Even after you are dead?'

'Even then.'

'I don't intend to fight for you,' said Angel. 'Under­stand? I will be a tutor to your daughter, but that is all.'

'I need no one to fight for me,' snapped Waylander. 'Not now. Not ever.'

Angel nodded. 'I accept your offer. I will stay and teach her, but only so long as I believe she is learning. When the day comes – as it will – when I can teach her no more, or she cannot learn, then I leave. Is that agreeable?'

'It is.' Waylander rose and moved to the rear wall. Angel watched him press his palm against a flat stone, then reach inside a hidden compartment. Waylander turned and tossed a heavy pouch across the room. Angel caught it, and heard the chink of metal within. 'There is a part-payment,' said Waylander.

'How much?'

'Fifty gold Raq.'

'I'd have undertaken the task for this alone. Why pay so much more?'

'You tell me?' countered Waylander.

'You set the price at the same level as the hunt-geld upon you. You are removing temptation from my path.'

"That is true, Caridris. But not the whole truth.'

'And what is the whole truth?'

'Danyal was fond of you,' replied Waylander, rising to his feet. 'And I wouldn't want to kill you. Now I'll bid you goodnight.'

Waylander found sleep elusive, but he lay still, eyes closed, resting his body. Tomorrow he would run again, building his strength and stamina, preparing for the day when the assassins would come.

He was pleased Angel had chosen to stay. He would be good for Miriel, and when the killers finally tracked him down he would ask the gladiator to take the girl to Drenan. Once there she would inherit all his wealth, choose a husband and enjoy a life free from peril.

Slowly he relaxed and faded into dreams.

Danyal was beside him. They were riding by a lakeside, and the sun was bright in a clear blue sky.

'I'll race you to the meadow,' she shouted, digging her heels into the grey mare's flanks.

'No!' he shouted, his panic growing. But she rode away. He saw the horse stumble and fall, watched as it rolled across Danyal, the pommel of the saddle crushing her chest. 'No!' he screamed again, waking, his body bathed in sweat.

All was silent. He shivered. His hands were trembling and he rose from the bed and poured himself a goblet of water. Together he and Danyal had crossed a war-torn land, enemies all around them. Werebeasts had hunted them, Nadir warriors had tracked them. But they had survived. Yet in peace-time, beside a still lake, Danyal had died.

Forcing back the memories he focused instead upon the dangers he faced, and how best to tackle them. Fear settled upon him. He knew of Morak. The man was a torturer who revelled in the pain of others – unhinged, perhaps even insane, yet he never failed. Belash was unknown to him, but he was Nadir, and that meant he would be a fearless fighter. A warrior race, the Nadir had little time for weaklings. Constantly at war the tribesmen fought one another with pitiless ferocity, and only the very strong survived to manhood.

Senta, Courail, Morak, Belash . . . how many more? And who had paid them? The last question he pushed aside. It didn't matter. Once you have killed the hunters you can find out, he told himself.

Once you have killed the hunters . . .

A great weariness of spirit settled upon him. Taking up his tinder-box he lifted a bronze lantern from the hook on the wall above his bed and struck a flame, holding it to the wick. A golden light flickered. Rehanging the lantern, Waylander sat down upon the bed and gazed at his hands.

Hands of death. The hands of the Slayer.

As a young soldier he had fought for the Drenai against Sathuli raiders, protecting the farmer and the settlers of the Sentran Plain. But he hadn't protected them well enough, for a small band of killers had crossed the mountains to raid and pillage. On the return journey they stopped at his farmhouse, raped and murdered his wife and killed his children.

On that day Dakeyras changed. The young soldier resigned his commission and set out in pursuit of the killers. Coming upon their camp he had slain two of them, the rest fleeing. But he tracked them and, one by one, hunted them down. Each man he caught he tortured, forcing informa­tion on the names and likely destinations of the remaining raiders. It took years, and on the endless journey the young officer named Dakeyras died, to be replaced by the empty killing-machine known as Waylander.

By then, death and suffering meant nothing to the silent hunter and, one night in Mashrapur, his money gone, he had been approached by a merchant seeking revenge on a business rival. For forty silver pieces Waylander undertook his first assassination. He did not try to justify his actions, not even to himself. The hunt was everything, and to find the killers he needed money. Cold and heartless he moved on, a man apart, feared, avoided, telling himself that when the quest was over he would become Dakeyras again.

But when the last of the raiders had died screaming, staked out across a campfire, Waylander knew Dakeyras was gone forever. And he had continued his bloody trade, the road to Hell carrying him forward until the day he killed the Drenai King.

The enormity of the deed, and its terrible consequences, haunted him still. The land had been plunged into war, with thousands slain, widowed, orphaned.

The golden lantern light flickered on the far wall and Waylander sighed. He had tried to redeem himself, but could a man ever earn forgiveness for such crimes? He doubted it. And even if the Source granted him absolution it would mean nothing. For he could not forgive himself. Maybe that's why Danyal died, he thought, not for the first time. Perhaps he was always to be burdened by sorrow.

Pouring himself a goblet of water he drained it and returned to his bed. The gentle priest Dardalion had guided him from the road to perdition, and Danyal had found the tiny spark of Dakeyras that remained, fanning it to life, bringing him back from the dead.

But now she too was gone. Only Miriel remained. Would he have to watch her die?

Miriel would fail the test. That's what Angel had said, and he was right. Dakeyras recalled the day he himself had tested Danyal. Deep in Nadir territory assassins had come upon him, and he had slain them. Danyal asked him how it was that he killed with such ease.

He walked away from her and stooped to lift a pebble. 'Catch this,' he said, flicking the stone towards her. Her hand snaked out and she caught the pebble deftly. 'That was easy, was it not?'

'Yes,' she admitted.

'Now if I had Krylla and Miriel here, and two men had knives at their throats, and you were told that if you missed the pebble they would die, would it still be easy to catch? The onset of fear makes the simplest of actions complex and difficult. I am what I am because, whatever the consequences, the pebble remains a pebble.'

'Can you teach me?'

'I don't have the time.' She had argued, and finally he said, 'What do you fear most at this moment?'

'I fear losing you.'

He moved away from her and lifted a second pebble. Clouds partly obscured the moonlight and she strained to see his hand. 'I am going to throw this to you,' he said. 'If you catch it, you stay and I train you. If you miss it you return to Skarta.'

'No, that's not fair! The light is poor.'

'Life is not fair, Danyal. If you do not agree, then I ride away alone.'

"Then I agree.'

Without another word he flicked the stone towards her –a bad throw, moving fast and to her left. Her hand flashed out and the pebble bounced against her palm. Even as it fell her fingers snaked around it, clutching it like a prize.

She laughed. 'Why so pleased?' he asked her.

'I won!'

'No, tell me what you did.'

'I conquered my fear.'

'No.'

'Well, what then? I don't understand.'

'You must if you wish to learn.'

Suddenly she smiled. 'I understand the mystery, Waylander.'

"Then tell me what you did.'

'I caught a pebble in the moonlight.'

Waylander sighed. The room was cold, but his memories were warm. Outside a wolf howled at the moon, a lonely sound, haunting and primal. And Waylander slept.

'You move with all the grace of a sick cow,' stormed Angel, as Miriel pushed herself to her knees, fighting to draw air into her tired lungs. Angry now she surged to her feet, the sword-blade lunging at Angel's belly. Sidestepping swiftly he parried the thrust, the flat of his left hand striking her just behind the ear. Miriel hit the ground on her face.

'No, no, no!' said Angel. 'Anger must be controlled. Rest now for a while.' He walked away from her and stopped at the well, hauling up the copper-bound bucket and splashing water to his face.

Miriel rose wearily, her spirits low. For months now she had believed her sword skills to be high, better than most men, her father had said. Now she was faced with the odious truth. A sick cow, indeed! Slowly she made her way to where Angel sat on the wall of the well. He was stripped to the waist now and she saw the host of scars on the ridged muscles of his chest and belly, on his thick forearms and his powerful shoulders.

'You have suffered many wounds,' she said.

'It shows how many skilful swordsmen there are,' he answered gruffly.

'Why are you angry?'

He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. 'In the city there are many clerks, administrators, organisers. Without them Drenan would cease to run. They are valued men. But place them in these mountains and they would starve to death while surrounded by game and edible roots. You understand? The degree of a man's skill is relative to his surroundings, or the challenges he faces. Against most men you would be considered highly talented. You are fast and you have courage. But the men hunting your father are warriors. Belash would kill you in two. . . three . . . heartbeats. Morak would not take much longer. Senta and Courail both learned their skills in the arena.'

'Can I be as good?'

He shook his head. 'I don't think so. Much as I hate to admit it I think there is an evil in men like them . . . men like me. We are natural killers, and though we may not talk of our feelings yet each of us knows the bitter truth. We enjoy fighting. We enjoy killing. I don't think you will. Indeed, I don't think you should.'

'You think my father enjoys killing?'

'He's a mystery,' admitted Angel. 'I remember talking to Danyal about that. She said he was two men, the one kind, the other a demon. There are gates in the soul which should never be unlocked. He found a key.'

'He has always been kind to me, and to my sister.'

'I don't doubt that. What happened to Krylla?'

'She married and moved away.'

'When I knew you as children you had a … power, a Talent. You and she could talk to each other without speaking. You could see things far off. Can you still do it?'

'No,' she said, turning away.

'When did it fail?'

'I don't want to talk about it. Are you ready to teach me?'

'Of course,' he answered. 'That is why I am being paid. Stand still.' Rising he moved to stand before her, his hands running over her shoulders and arms, fingers press­ing into the muscles, tracing the lines of her biceps and triceps, up over the deltoids and the joints of her shoulders.

She felt herself reddening. 'What are you doing?' she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

'Your arms are not strong enough,' he told her, 'especially at the back here,' he added, squeezing her triceps. 'All your power is in your legs and lungs. And your balance is wrong. Give me your hand.' Even as he spoke he took hold of her wrist, lifting her arm and staring down at her fingers. 'Long,' he said, almost to himself. 'Too long. It means you cannot get a good grip on the sword-hilt. We'll cut more leather for it tonight. Follow!'

He strode to the edge of the tree line and walked from trunk to trunk, examining the branches. At last satisfied he stood beneath a spreading elm, a thick limb sprouting just out of reach above him. 'I want you to jump and catch hold of that branch and then slowly pull yourself up until your chin touches the bark. Then – and still slowly, mind – lower yourself until the arms are almost straight. Under­stand?'

'Of course I understand,' she snapped. 'It was hardly the most complex of instructions.'

'Then do it!'

'How many times?'

'As many as you can. I want to see the limits of your strength.'

She leapt upwards, her fingers hooking over the branch, and hung for a moment adjusting her grip. Then slowly she hauled herself up.

'How does it feel?' he asked.

'Easy,' she answered, lowering herself.

'Again!'

At three she began to feel her biceps stretching. At five they began to burn. At seven her arms trembled and gave way and she dropped to the ground. 'Pathetic,' said Angel. 'But it is a start. Tomorrow morning you will begin your day with seven, eight if you can. Then you can run. When you return you will do another seven. In three days I will expect you to complete twelve.'

'How many could you do?'

'At least a hundred,' he replied. 'Follow!'

'Will you stop saying follow! It makes me feel like a dog.'

But he was moving even as she spoke and Miriel followed him back across the clearing. 'Wait here,' he ordered, then walked to the side of the cabin where the winter wood was stored. Selecting two large chunks he carried them back to where Miriel was waiting and laid them on the ground twenty feet apart. 'I want you to run from one to the other,' he said.

'You want me to run twenty feet? Why?'

His hand snaked out, rapping against her cheek. 'Stop asking stupid questions and do as you are told.'

'You whoreson!' she stormed. 'Touch me again and I'll kill you!'

He laughed and shook his head. 'Not yet. But do as I tell you – and maybe you'll have the skill to do just that. Now move to the first piece of wood.'

Still seething she walked to the first chunk, his voice following her. 'Run to the second and stoop down, touching the wood with your right hand. Turn instantly and run back to the first, touching it with your left hand. Am I going too fast for you?'

Miriel bit back an angry retort and started to run. But she covered the distance in only a few steps and had to chop her stride. Feeling both ungainly and uncomfortable she ducked down, slapped her fingers against the wood then turned and ran back. 'I think you have the idea,' he said. 'Now do it twenty times. And a little faster.'

For three hours he ordered her through a series of gruelling exercises, running, jumping, sword-work, end­less repetition of thrusts and cuts. Not once did she complain, but nor did she speak to him. Grimly she pushed herself through all of his exercises until he called a break at midday. Tired now, Miriel strode back to the cabin, her limbs trembling. She was used to running, inured to the pain of oxygen-starved calves and burning lungs. In truth she even enjoyed the sensations, the sense of freedom, of speed, of power. But the weariness and aches she felt now were all in unaccustomed places. Her hips and waist felt bruised and tender, her arms leaden, her back aching.

To Miriel strength was everything, and her faith in her own skills had been strong. Now Angel had undermined her confidence, first with the consummate ease of his victory in the forest, and now with the punishing routines that exposed her every weakness. She had been awake when Waylander made his offer to the former gladiator, and had heard his response. Miriel believed she knew what Angel was trying to do, force her to refuse his training, humiliate her into quitting. Then he would claim his fortune from her father. And, because Dakeyras was a man of pride and honour, he would pay the ten thousand.

You will not find it easy, Angel, she promised. No, you will have to work for your money, you ugly whoreson!

Angel was well satisfied with the day's training. Miriel had performed above his expectations, fuelled no doubt by anger at the slap. But Angel cared nothing for the motivation. It was enough that the girl had proved to be a fighter. At least he would have something to work with. Given the time, of course.

Waylander had left just after dawn. 'I will be back in four days. Perhaps five. Make good use of the time.'

'You can trust me,' Angel told him.

Waylander smiled thinly. 'Try to stop her attacking anyone else. She should be safe then. The Guild has a rule about innocent victims.'

Morak follows no rules, thought Angel, but he said nothing as the tall warrior loped away towards the north.

An hour before dusk Angel called a halt to the work, but was surprised when Miriel announced she was going for a short run. Was it bravado, he wondered? 'Carry a sword,' he told her.

'I have my knives,' she answered.

'That's not what I meant. I want you to carry a sword. To hold it in your hand.'

'I need this run to loosen my muscles, stretch them out. The sword will hamper me.'

'I know. Do it anyway.'

She accepted without further argument. Angel returned to the cabin and pulled off his boots. He too was tired, but would be damned before letting the girl know. Two years out of the arena had seen his stamina drain away. He poured himself a drink of water and slumped down in front of the dead fire.

Given a month, possibly two, he could make something of the girl. Increase her speed, lower her reaction time. The side sprints would help with balance, and the work to build her arms and shoulders add power to her lunges and cuts. But the real problem lay within her heart. When angry she was fast but wild, easy meat for the skilled swordsman. When cool her movements were stilted, her attacks easy to read and counter. The end result of any combat, therefore, would be the same.

She had been gone perhaps an hour when he heard her light footfalls on the hard-packed clay of the clearing. He looked up as she entered, her tunic drenched in perspira­tion, her face red, her long hair damp. The sword was still in her hand.

'Did you carry it all the way?' he asked softly.

'Yes. That's what you told me.'

'You did not drop it on the trail and pick it up on your return?'

'No!' she answered, offended.

He believed her, and swore inwardly. 'Do you always do as you are told?' he snapped.

'Yes,' she told him, simply.

'Why?'

Throwing the sword to the table top she stood before him, hands on hips. 'Are you now criticising me for obeying you? What do you want from me?'

He sighed. 'Merely your best – and you gave that today. Rest now. I will prepare supper.'

'Nonsense,' she said sweetly. 'You are an old man, and you look weary. You sit there and I'll bring you some food.'

'I thought we had a truce,' he said, following her to the kitchen, where she took down a large ham and began to slice it.

"That was yesterday. That was before you set out to cheat my father.'

His face darkened. 'I have never cheated anyone in my life.'

She swung on him. 'No? What would you call ten thousand in gold for a few days' work?'

'I did not ask for the sum – he offered it. And if you were eavesdropping – a womanly skill, I've found – then you will have heard me tell him I'd do it for fifty.'

'You want cheese with this ham?' she asked.

'Yes, and bread. Did you hear what I said?'

'I heard you, but I don't believe you. You were trying to force me to fail. Admit it!'

'Yes, I admit it.'

'Then that's all there is to say. There's your food. When you have finished it, clean your plate. And then do me the kindness of spending the evening in your room. I've had enough of your company today.'

"The training doesn't stop just because the sun's gone down,' he said softly. Today we worked your body. This evening we work your mind. And I will go to my room when it pleases me. What are you going to eat?'

"The same as you.'

'Do you have any honey?'

'No.'

'Dried fruit?'

'Yes – why?'

'Eat some. I learnt a long time ago that sweetmeats and cakes sit more easily on a tired stomach. You'll sleep better and wake more refreshed. And drink a lot of water.'

'Anything else?'

'If I think of anything I'll tell you. Now let us finish this meal and start to work.'

Having finished his meal Angel cleared away the ash of the previous night's fire, laid fresh kindling, and struck a spark to the tinder. Miriel had eaten in the kitchen, and had then walked through the cabin and out into the night. Angel was angry with himself. You are no teacher, he thought. And the girl was right –he wanted her to quit. But not for the reasons she believed. He sighed and leaned back on his haunches, watching the tiny flames devouring the kindling, feeling the first soft waves of heat from the fire.

He had tried to train the boy, Ranuld, showing him the moves and defences he would need in his new career, but Ranuld had died from a disembowelling cut in his first fight. Then there was Sorrin, tall and athletic, fearless and fast. He had lasted for seven fights – had even become a favourite with the crowd. Senta had killed him – heelspin and reverse thrust to the throat. Good move, beautifully executed. Sorrin was dead before he knew it.

That was the day Angel retired. He had fought a dull Vagrian, whose name he couldn't recall. The man was tough, but slowed by a recent wound. Even so he had almost taken Angel, cutting him twice. After the battle Angel had sat in the arena surgery, the doctor stitching his wounds, while on the table opposite lay Sorrin's bloody corpse. Beside it sat Senta, a bandage soaked in honey and wine being applied to a shallow cut in his shoulder.

'You trained him well,' said Senta. 'He almost took me.'

'Not well enough,' answered Angel.

'I look forward to meeting the master.'

Angel had looked into the young man's eager eyes, seeing the mocking expression on the handsome face, the smile that was almost a sneer. 'It won't happen, boy,' he had said, the words tasting like acid in his mouth. 'I'm too old and slow. This is your day. Enjoy it.'

'You are leaving the arena?' whispered Senta, astonished.

'Yes. That was my last fight.'

The young man nodded, then cursed as the orderly tied the knot in the bandage on his shoulder. 'You dolt!' snapped Senta.

'I'm sorry, sir!' said the man, moving back, his face twisted in fear.

Senta returned his gaze to Angel. 'I think you are wise, old man, but for myself I am disappointed. You are a favourite with the crowds. I could have made my fortune by defeating you.'

Angel added wood to the fire and stood. Senta had only fought for one more year, then he had joined the Guild, earning far more as an assassin than a gladiator.

The door opened behind him, and he felt a cold draught. Turning he saw Miriel walking towards her room. She was naked and carrying her clothes, her body wet from a bath in the stream. His gaze took in her narrow back and waist, the long muscular legs and firm, rounded buttocks. Arousal touched him and he swung back to the fire.

After a few minutes Miriel joined him, her body clothed in a loose woollen robe of grey wool. 'What work did you have in mind?' she asked him, seating herself in the chair opposite.

'You know why I slapped you?'

'You wanted to dominate me.'

'No. I wanted to see you angry. I needed to know how you reacted when your blood was high.' Idly he stabbed at the fire with an iron poker. 'Listen to me, girl, I am not a teacher. I have only trained two people – young men I loved. Both died. I am , . . was … a fine fighter, but just because I have a skill does not mean I can pass it on. You understand?' She remained silent, her large eyes staring at him, expressionless. 'I was a little in love with Danyal, I think, and I have respect for your father. I came here to warn him, so that he would leave the area, travel to Ventria or Gothir. And yes, I could use the gold. But that's not why I came, nor is it why I agreed to stay. If you choose not to believe me then I will leave in the morning – and I will not claim the fortune.'

Still she said nothing.

'I don't know what else I can say to you.' He shrugged and sat back.

'You told me we were going to work,' she said softly. 'On my mind. What did you mean?'

He spread his hands and stared into the fire. 'Did your father ever tell you about the test he set Danyal?'

'No. But I heard you say I would fail it.'

'Yes, you would.' And Angel told her of the pebble in the moonlight, and talked on of the warrior's heart, the willingness to risk everything, but the confidence to believe the risk was calculated.

'How do I achieve this?' she asked.

'I don't know,' he admitted.

'The two men you trained – did they have it?'

'Ranuld believed he did, but he tied up in his first fight, his muscles tense, his movements halting. Sorrin had it, I think, but he met a better man. It comes from an ability to close off that part of the imagination that is fuelled by fear. You know, the part that pictures terrible wounds and gangrene, pumping blood and the darkness of death. But at the same time the mind must continue to function, seeing the opponent's weaknesses, planning ways through his defences. You have seen my scars. I have been cut many times – but always I won. And I beat better men, faster men, stronger men. I beat them because I was too obstinate to give up. And their confidence would begin to fail, and the windows of their minds would creep open. Their imagination would seep out, and they would begin to doubt, to fear. And from that moment it did not matter that they were better, or faster or stronger. For I would grow before their eyes and they would shrink before mine.'

'I will learn,' she promised.

'I doubt it can be learned. Your father became Waylander because his first family were butchered by raiders, but I don't believe the atrocity created Waylander. He was always there, beneath the surface of Dakeyras. The real question is, what lies beneath the surface of Miriel?'

'We will see,' she said.

'Then you wish me to stay?'

'Yes. I wish you to stay. But answer me one question honestly.'

'Ask.'

'What is it you fear?'

'Why would you think I fear anything?' he hedged.

'I know that you did not want to stay, and I sense you are torn between your desire to help me and a need to leave. So what is it?'

'The question is a fair one. Let us leave it that you are right. There is something I fear, but I am not prepared to talk about it. As you are not prepared to speak of the loss of your Talent.'

She nodded. 'There is one – or more – among the assassins that you do not wish to meet. Am I close?'

'We must thicken the grip on your sword,' he said. 'Cut some strips of leather – thin, no wider than a finger's width. You have glue?'

'Yes. Father makes it from fishbones and hide.'

'First bind the hilt until the size feels comfortable. When curled around it your longest finger should just touch the flesh below your thumb. When you are satisfied, glue the strips into place.'

'You did not answer me,' she said.

'No,' he replied. 'Cut and bind the strips tonight. It will give the glue time to dry. I will see you in the morning.' He rose and strode across the room.

'Angel!'

His hand was on the door latch. 'Yes.'

'Sleep well.'