Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf

4

Dardalion swung away from the window and faced the two priests standing before his desk.

'The argument,' he said, 'is of intellectual interest only. It is of no real importance.'

'How can that be, Father Abbot?' asked Magnic. 'Surely it is central to our beliefs?'

'In this I must agree with my brother,' put in the forked-bearded Vishna, his dark eyes staring unblinking at the Abbot. Dardalion beckoned them to be seated and leaned back in his wide leather chair. Magnic looked so young against Vishna, he thought, his pale face, soft-featured and unlined, his blond, unruly hair giving him the appearance of a youth some years from twenty. Vishna, tall and stern, his black forked beard carefully combed and oiled, looked old enough to be Magnic's father. Yet both were barely twenty-four.

'The debate is of worth only because it makes us consider the Source,' said Dardalion at last. 'The pantheistic view that God exists in everything, every stone and every tree, is an interesting one. We believe the Universe was created by the Source in a single moment of blinding energy. From Nothing came Something. What could that Something be, save the body of the Source? That is the argument of the pantheists. Your view, Magnic, that the Source is separate from the world, and that only the Chaos Spirit rules here, is also widely held. The Source, in a terrible War against His own rebellious angels, sent them hurtling to the earth, there to rule, as He rules in Heaven. This argument makes Hell of our world. And I would agree that there is strong evidence to suggest that sometimes it is.

'But in all these debates we are trying to imagine the unimaginable, and therein lies a great danger. The Source of All Things is beyond us. His actions are timeless, and so far above our understanding as to make them meaningless to us. Yet still we try to force our minds to comprehend. We struggle to encompass His greatness, to draw Him in and place Him in acceptable compartments. This leads to dispute and disruption, discord and disharmony. And these are the weapons of the Chaos Spirit.' Dardalion rose and walked around the oak desk to stand beside the two priests, laying a hand on each of them. 'The important point is to know that He exists, and to trust His judgement. You see, you could both be right, and both be wrong. We are dealing here with the Cause of All Causes, the one great truth in a universe of lies. How can we judge? From what perspec­tive? How does the ant perceive the elephant? All the ant sees is part of the foot. Is that the elephant? It is to the ant. Be patient. When the Day of Glory arrives all will be revealed. We will find the Source together – as we have planned.'

'That day is not far off,' said Vishna quietly.

'Not far,' agreed Dardalion. 'How is the training pro­gressing?'

'We are strong,' said Vishna, 'but we have problems still with Ekodas.'

Dardalion nodded. 'Send him to me this evening, after meditation.'

'You will not talk him round, Father Abbot,' ventured Magnic diffidently. 'He will leave us rather than fight. He cannot overcome his cowardice.'

'He is not a coward,' said Dardalion, masking his annoyance. 'I know this. I once walked the same road, believed the same dreams. Evil can sometimes be coun­tered with love. Indeed, that is the best way. But some­times evil must be faced with steel and a strong arm, yet do not call him a coward for holding to high ideals. It lessens you as much as it insults him.'

The blond priest blushed furiously. 'I am sorry, Father Abbot.'

'And now I am expecting a visitor,' said Dardalion. 'Vishna, wait for him at the front gate and bring him straight to my study. Magnic, go to the cellar and fetch a bottle of wine and some bread and cheese.' Both priests stood. 'One more thing,' said Dardalion, his voice little more than a whisper. 'Do not shake hands with the man, or touch him. And do not try to read his thoughts.'

'Is he evil, then?' asked Vishna.

'No, but his memories would burn you. Now go and wait for him.'

Dardalion returned to the window. The sun was high, shining down on the distant Delnoch peaks, and from this high window the Abbot could just see the faint grey line of the first wall of the Delnoch fortress. His eyes tracked along the colossal peaks of the mountains, traversing west to east towards the distant sea. Low clouds blocked the view, but Dardalion pictured the fortress of Dros Purdol, saw again the dreadful siege, heard the screams of the dying. He sighed. The might of Vagria was humbled before the walls of Purdol, and the history of the world changed in those awful months of warfare. Good men had died, iron spears ripping into their bodies . . .

The first Thirty had been slaughtered there, battling against the demonic powers of the Brotherhood. Dardalion alone had survived. He shivered, as he relived the pain of the spear plunging into his back, and the loneliness as the souls of his friends flew from him, hurtling towards the eternal serenity of the Source. The Thirty had fought on the astral plane alone, refusing to bear weapons in the world of flesh. How wrong they had been!

The door opened behind him, and he stiffened, his mouth suddenly dry. Swiftly he closed the gates of his Talent, shutting out the swelling violence emanating from his visitor. Slowly he turned. His guest was tall, wide-shouldered and yet lean, dark-eyed and stern of ap­pearance. He was dressed all in black and even the chain-mail shoulder-guard was stained with dark dye. Dardalion's eyes were drawn to the many weapons, the three knives sheathed to the man's baldric, the throwing blades in scabbards strapped to his forearms, the short sabre and crossbow bolt quiver at his side. Two more knives were hidden, he knew, in the man's knee-length moccasins. But the weapon of death that drew his gaze was the small ebony crossbow the man held in his right hand.

'Good day, Dakeyras,' said Dardalion, and there was no welcome in his voice.

'And to you, Dardalion. You are looking well.'

'That will be all, Vishna,' said the Abbot, and the tall, white-robed priest bowed and departed. 'Sit you down,' Dardalion told his visitor, but the man remained standing, his dark eyes scanning the room, the shelves packed with ancient tomes, the open cupboards bursting with manu­scripts and scrolls, the dust-covered rugs and the decaying velvet hangings at the high, arched window. 'I study here,' said Dardalion.

The door opened and Magnic entered, bearing a tray on which stood a bottle of wine, two loaves of black bread and a hunk of blue-veined cheese. Placing them on the desk the blond priest bowed and departed.

'They are nervous of me,' said Waylander. 'What have you told them?'

'I told them not to touch you.'

Waylander chuckled. 'You don't change, do you? Still the same priggish, pompous priest.' He shrugged. 'Well, that is your affair. I did not come here to criticise you. I came for information.'

'I can offer you none.'

'You don't know yet what I am going to ask. Or do you?'

'You want to know who hired the assassins and why.'

'That's part of it.'

'What else?' asked Dardalion, filling two goblets with wine and offering one to his guest. Waylander accepted it, taking the drink with his left hand, politely sipping the contents and then replacing the goblet on the desk top, there to be forgotten. The sound of clashing sword-blades rose up from the courtyard below. Waylander moved to the window and leaned out.

'Teaching your priests to fight? You do surprise me, Dardalion. I thought you were against such violence.'

'I am against the violence of evil. What else did you want to know?'

'I have not heard from Krylla since she moved away. You could . . . use your Talent and tell me if she is well.'

'No.'

'That is it? A simple no – not a word of explanation?'

'I owe you no explanations. I owe you nothing.'

'That's true,' said Waylander coldly. 'I saved your life, not once but many times, but you owe me nothing. So be it, priest. You are a fine example of religion in action.'

Dardalion reddened. 'Everything you did was for your own ends. I used all my powers to protect you. I watched my disciples die while I protected you. And yes, for once in your life you did the decent deed. Good for you! You don't need me, Waylander. You never did. Everything I believe in is mocked by your life. Can you understand that? Your soul is like a blazing torch of dark light, and I need to steel myself to stand in the same room as you, closing off my Talent lest your light corrupt me.'

'You sound like a windy pig, and your words smell about as fine,' snapped Waylander. 'Corrupt you? You think I haven't seen what you are doing here? You had armour made in Kasyra, and helms bearing runic numbers. Knives, bows, swords. Warrior priests: isn't that a contradiction, Dardalion? At least my violence is honest. I fight to stay alive. I no longer kill for hire. I have a daughter I am trying to protect. What is your excuse for teaching priests to kill?'

'You wouldn't understand!' hissed the Abbot, aware that his heartbeat was rising and that anger was threatening to engulf him.

'You are right again, Dardalion. I don't understand. But then I am not a religious man. I served the Source once, but then He discarded me. Not content with that He killed my wife. Now I see His . . . Abbot, isn't it? … playing at soldiers. No, I don't understand. But I understand friend­ship. I would die for those I love, and if I had a Talent like yours I would not deny it to them. Gods, man, I would not even deny it to a man I disliked.' Without another word the black-garbed warrior strode from the room.

Dardalion slumped back in his chair, fighting for calm. For some time he prayed. Then he meditated before praying again. At last he opened his eyes. 'I wish I could have told you, my friend,' he whispered. 'But it would have been too painful for you.'

Dardalion closed his eyes once more and let his spirit free. Passing through flesh and bone as if his body had become water he rose like a swimmer seeking air. High now above the Temple he gazed down on the grey castle and the tall hill upon which it stood, and he saw the town spread out around the foot of the hill, the narrow streets, the wide market square and the bear-pit beyond it, stained with blood. But his spirit eyes sought out the man who had been his friend. He was moving easily down the winding path towards the trees and Dardalion felt his sorrow, and his anger.

And the freedom of the sky could not mask the sadness which swept through the Abbot.

'You could have told him,' whispered the voice of Vishna in his mind.

'The balance is too delicate.'

'Is he so important, then?'

'Of himself? No,' answered Dardalion, 'but his actions now will change the future of nations – that I know. And I must not – will not – attempt to guide him.'

'What will he do when he finds out the truth?'

Dardalion shrugged. 'What he always does, Vishna. He will look for someone to kill. It is his way – a law made of iron. He is not evil, you know, but there is no compromise in him. Kings believe it is their will that guides history. They are wrong. In all great events there are men like Waylander. History may not recall them, but they are there.' He smiled. 'Ask any child who won the Vagrian War and they will tell you it was Karnak. But Waylander recovered the Armour of Bronze. Waylander slew the enemy general Kaem.'

'He is a man of power,' agreed Vishna. 'I could feel that.'

'He is the deadliest man I ever met. Those hunting him will find the truth of that, I fear.'

Waylander found his anger hard to control as he followed the winding hill path that led down to the forest. He paused and sat at the edge of the path. Anger blinds, he told himself. Anger dulls the senses! He took a deep, slow breath.

What did you expect of him?

More than I received.

It was galling, for he had loved the priest. And admired him – the gentleness of his soul, the bottomless well of forgiveness and understanding he could bring to bear. What changed you, Dardalion, he wondered. But he knew the answer, and it lay upon his heart with all the weight only guilt can muster.

Ten years ago he had found the young Dardalion being tortured by robbers. Against his better judgement he had rescued him, and in so doing had been drawn into the Vagrian War, helping Danyal and the children, finding the Armour of Bronze, fighting were-beasts and demonic warriors. The priest had changed his life. Dardalion had been pure then, a follower of the Source, unable to fight, even in order to survive, unwilling to eat meat. He could not even hate the men who tortured him, nor the vile enemy that swept across the land bringing blood and death to thousands.

Waylander had changed him. With the priest in a trance, his spirit hunted across the Void, Waylander had cut his own arm, holding it above Dardalion's face. And the blood had splashed to the priest's cheek, staining his skin and lips, flowing into his mouth. The unconscious Dardalion had reacted violently, his body arching in an almost epileptic spasm.

And he killed the demon spirit hunting him.

To save Dardalion's life, Waylander had sullied the priest's soul.

'You sullied me too,' whispered Waylander. 'You touched me with your purity. You shone a light on the dark places.' Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. From here he could see the town below, the small church a stone's throw from the bloodstained bear-pit, the timber-built homes and stables. He had no wish to journey there. South lay his home; south was where Danyal waited, silent among the flowers and the glittering falls.

Once under cover of the trees he relaxed a little, feeling the slow, eternal heartbeat of the forest all around him. What did these trees care for the hopes of Man? Their spirits were everlasting, born into the leaf, carried back to the ground, merging with the earth, feeding the tree, becoming leaves. An endless passive cycle of birth and rebirth through the eons. No murders here, no guilt. He felt the weight of his weapons, and wished he could cast them all aside and walk naked in the forest, the soft earth beneath his feet, the warm sun upon his back.

A shout of pain came from some way to his left, followed by the sound of cursing. Stepping swiftly, knife in hand, he pushed back a screen of bushes and saw four men standing close to the mouth of a shallow cave some fifty paces away, at the foot of a gentle slope. Three were carrying wooden clubs, the fourth a shortsword which, even at this distance, Waylander could see was part-rusted.

'Bastard damn near took my arm off,' complained a burly balding man, blood dripping from a shallow wound in his forearm.

'We need a bow, or spears,' said another.

'Leave the beast. It's a demon,' said a third, backing away, 'and it's dying anyway.'

One by one they moved back from the cave mouth, but the last man stopped and threw a large stone into the dark recesses of the cave. A deep growl was heard and a huge hound appeared in the entrance, blood on its fangs. The men suddenly panicked and ran back up the slope. The first of them, the balding fat man with the injured arm, saw Waylander standing there and paused.

'Don't go down there, friend,' he said. "The dog is a killer.'

'Rabid?' queried Waylander.

'Nah. It was one of the pit dogs. There was a bear-fight this morning, damn fine one at that. But one of Jezel's hounds got loose. Worst of them too, part-wolf. We thought the bear had killed it and we were hauling the bodies out, but it wasn't dead. Bastard reared up and tore Jezel's throat away. Terrible thing. Terrible. Then it ran. The gods alone know how it managed it. Ripped up by the bear and all.'

'Not many dogs would turn on their owners that way,' observed Waylander.

'Pit dogs will,' said a second man, tall and skeletally thin. 'It's the training you see, the beatings and the starving and the like. Jezelis. . .was. . .a damn fine trainer. The best.'

'Thanks for the warning,' said Waylander.

'Not at all,' replied the thin man. 'You looking for lodgings for the night? I own the inn. We've a good room.'

'Thank you, no. I have no coin.'

The man's interest died instantly; with a swift smile he moved past Waylander and, followed by the others, strode off in the direction of the town. Waylander transferred his gaze to the hound, which had slumped exhausted to the grass and was now lying on its right side breathing hoarsely, its blood-covered flanks heaving.

Waylander moved slowly down the slope, halting some ten feet from the injured animal. From here he could see that its wounds were many, and its grey flanks carried other, older scars from claw and fang and whip. The hound gazed at him through baleful eyes, but its strength was gone, and when Waylander rose and moved to its side it managed only a weary growl.

'You can stop that,' said Waylander, gently stroking the hound's huge grey head. From the gashes and cuts he could see the dog had attacked the bear at least three times. There was blood seeping from four parallel rips in the hide, the skin peeled back exposing muscle and bone. Judging by the size of the clawmarks, the bear must have been large indeed. Sheathing his knife Waylander examined the injuries. There were muscle tears, but no broken bones that he could find.

Another low growl came from the hound as Waylander eased a flap of skin back into place, and the beast struggled to turn its head, baring its fangs. 'Lie still,' ordered the man. 'We'll see what can be done.' From a leather pouch at his belt Waylander removed a long needle and a thin length of twine, stitching the largest of the wounds, seeking to stem the flow of blood. At last satisfied he moved to the head, stroking the beast's ears. 'You must try to rise,' he said, keeping his voice low, soothing. 'I need to see your left side. Come on. Up, boy!' The hound struggled, but sank back to the earth, tongue lolling from its gaping jaws.

Waylander rose and moved outside to a fallen tree, cutting from it a long strip of bark, which he twisted into a shallow bowl. Nearby was a slender stream and he filled the bowl, carrying it back to the stricken hound, and holding it beneath the creature's mouth. The hound's nostrils quivered, and once more it struggled to rise. Waylander pushed his hands beneath the huge shoulders, helping it to its feet. The head drooped, the tongue slowly lapping at the water. 'Good,' said Waylander. 'Good. Finish it now.' There were four more jagged cuts on the hound's left side, but these were matted with dirt and clay, which had at least stopped the flow of blood.

Having finished drinking the exhausted hound sank back to the earth, its great head resting on its huge paws. Waylander sat beside the beast, which gazed up at him unblinking, and noted the many scars, old and new, which crisscrossed its flanks and head. The right ear had been ripped away some years before and there was a long, thick scar which ran from the hound's shoulder to the first joint of its right leg. 'By the gods, you're a fighter, boy,' said the man admiringly. 'And you're no youngster. What would you be? Eight? Ten? Well, those cowards made a mistake. You're not going to die, are you? You won't give them the satisfaction, will you?'

Reaching into his shirt the man pulled clear a wedge of smoked meat, wrapped in linen. 'This was to have lasted me another two days,' said Waylander, 'but I can live without a meal for a while. I'm not sure that you can.' Unfolding the linen he took his knife and cut a section of meat which he laid before the hound. The dog merely sniffed at it, then returned its brown gaze to the man. 'Eat, idiot,' said Waylander, lifting the meat and touching it to the hound's long canines. Its tongue snaked out and the man watched as the dog chewed wearily. Slowly, as the hours passed, he fed the rest of the meat to the injured hound. Then, with the light fading, he took a last look at the wounds. They were mostly sealed, though a thin trickle of blood was seeping from the deepest cut on the rear right flank.

That's all I can do for you, boy,' said Waylander, rising. 'Good luck to you. Were I you, I wouldn't stay here too long. Those oafs may decide to come back for some sport –and they could bring a bowman.' Without a backward glance the man left the hound and made his way back into the forest.

The moon was high when he found a place to camp, a sheltered cave where his fire could not be seen, and he sat long into the night, wrapped in his cloak. He had done what he could for the dog, but there was little chance it would survive. It would have to scavenge for food, and in its wounded state it would not be able to move far. If it had been stronger he would have encouraged it to follow him, taken it to the cabin. Miriel would have loved it. He recalled the orphaned fox cub she had mothered as a child. What was the name she gave it? Blue. That was it. It stayed near the cabin for almost a year. Then, one day, it just loped off and never returned. Miriel had been twelve then. It was just before . . .

The memory of the horse falling, rolling, the terrible scream . . .

Waylander closed his eyes, forcing the memories back, concentrating on a picture of little Miriel feeding the fox cub with bread dipped in warm milk.

Just before dawn he heard something moving at the cave entrance. Rolling to his feet he drew his sword. The grey wolfhound limped inside and settled down at his feet. Waylander chuckled and sheathed his sword. Squatting down he reached out to stroke the beast. The dog gave a low, warning growl and bared its fangs.

'By Heaven, I like you, dog,' said Waylander. 'You remind me of me.'

Miriel watched the ugly warrior as he trained, his powerful hands clasped to the branch, his upper body bathed in sweat. 'You see,' he said, hauling himself smoothly up, 'the movement must be fluid, feet together. Touch your chin to the wood and then lower – not too fast, mind. No strain. Let your mind relax.' His voice was even, no hint of effort in his actions.

He was more powerfully built than her father, his shoulders and arms ridged with massive bands of muscle, and her eyes caught a trickle of sweat flowing over his shoulder and down his side. Like a tiny stream over the hills and valleys of his body. Sunlight gleamed on his bronzed skin, and the white scars shone like ivory on his chest and arms. Her gaze moved to his face, the smashed nose, the gashed, deformed lips, the swollen damaged ears. The contrast was chilling. His body was so beautiful.

But his face . . .

He dropped to the ground and grinned. 'Was a time I could have completed a hundred. But fifty's not bad. What are you thinking?'

Caught offguard she blushed. 'You make it look so simple,' she said, averting her gaze.

In the three days she had been practising she had once struggled to fifteen. He shrugged. 'You are getting there, Miriel. You just need more work.' Moving past her he picked up a towel and draped it over his neck.

'What happened to your wife?' she asked suddenly.

'Which one?'

'How many have you had?'

'Three.'

'That's a little excessive, isn't it?' she snapped.

He chuckled. 'Seems that way now,' he agreed.

'What about the first one?'

He sighed. 'Hell-cat. By Heaven she could fight. Half-demon – and that was the gentle half. The gods alone know where the other half came from. She swore her father was Drenai – I didn't believe it for a moment. Had some good times, though. Rare good times.'

'Did she die?'

He nodded. 'Plague. She fought it, mind. All the swellings had gone, the discolouration. She'd even begun to get her hair back. Then she caught a chill and had no strength left to battle it. Died in the night. Peaceful.'

'Were you a gladiator then?'

'No. I was a merchant's book-keeper.'

'I don't believe it! How did you meet her?'

'She danced in a tavern. One night someone reached up and grabbed her leg. She kicked him in the mouth. He drew a dagger. I stopped him.'

'Just like that? A book-keeper?'

'Do not make the mistake of judging a man's physical courage, or his skills, by the work he is forced to do,' he said. 'I knew a doctor once who could put an arrow through a gold ring at forty paces. And a street cleaner in Drenan who once held off twenty Sathuli warriors, killing three, before he carried his injured officer back to camp. Judge a man by his actions, not his occupation. Now let's get back to work.'

'What about the other wives?'

'Don't want to work yet, eh? All right. Let's see, what can I tell you about Kalla? She was another dancer. Worked in the south quarter in Drenan. Ventrian girl. Sweet – but she had a weakness. Loved men. Couldn't say no. That marriage lasted eight months. She ran off with a merchant from Mashrapur. And lastly there was Voria. Older than me, but not much. I was a young fighter then, and she was the patron of the Sixth Arena. She took a fancy to me, showered me with gifts. Married her for her money, have to admit it, but I learned to love her, in my own way.'

'And she died, too?'

'No. She caught me with two serving maids and threw me out. Made my life Hell. For three years she kept trying to have me killed in the arena. Spiked my special wine with a sleeping-draught once. I was almost dead on my feet when I went out to fight. Then she hired two assassins. I had to leave Drenan for a while. I fought in Vagria, Gothir, even Mashrapur.'

'Does she still hate you?'

He shook his head. 'She married a young nobleman, then died suddenly leaving him all her money. Fell from a window – accident, they said, but I spoke to a servant who said he'd heard her having a terrible row with her husband just before she fell.'

'You think he killed her?'

'Sure of it.'

'And now he lives fat off her wealth?'

'No. Curiously he fell from the same window two nights later. His neck was broken in the fall.'

'And you wouldn't have had anything to do with that?'

'Me? How could you think it? And now let's work, if you please. Swords, I think.'

But just as Miriel was drawing her sword she saw movement in the undergrowth to the north of the cabin. At first she thought it was her father returning, for the first man who came into sight was dressed all in black. But he carried a longbow and was darkly bearded. He was followed by a shorter, stockier man in a tan leather jerkin.

'Follow my lead,' whispered Angel. 'And say nothing, even if they speak to you.'

He turned and waited as the men approached. 'Good day,' said the black-garbed bowman.

'And to you, friend. Hunting?'

'Aye. Thought we might find a stag.'

'Plenty south of here. Boar too, if you like the meat.'

'Nice cabin. Yours?'

'Yes,' said Angel. The man nodded.

'You'd be Dakeyras then?'

'That's right. This is my daughter, Moriae. How do you know of us?'

'Met some people in the mountains. They said you had a cabin here.'

'So you came to visit?'

'Not exactly. Thought you might be an old friend of mine. His name was Dakeyras, but he was taller than you and darker.'

'It's not an uncommon name,' said Angel. 'If you kill a stag I'll buy some of the meat. Game will be pretty scarce once winter comes.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' said the bowman.

The two men walked off towards the south. Angel watched them until they were out of sight.

'Assassins?' asked Miriel.

'Trackers, huntsmen. They'll be in the employ of Senta or Morak.'

'You took a risk claiming to be Dakeyras.'

'Not really,' he said. 'They were likely to have been given a description of Waylander – and I certainly don't fit it.'

'But what if they hadn't? What if they had merely attacked you?'

'I'd have killed them. Now, let's work.'

Kesa Khan stared gloomily into the green flames, his jet-black eyes unblinking. He hawked and spat into the fire, his expression impassive, his heart beating wildly.

'What do you see, shaman?' asked Anshi Chen. The wizened shaman waved a hand, demanding silence, and the stocky chieftain obeyed. Three hundred swords he could call upon, but he feared the little man as he feared nothing else in life, not even the prospect of death.

Kesa Khan had seen all he needed to, but still his slanted eyes remained locked to the dancing flames. Reaching a skeletal hand into one of the four clay pots before him he took a pinch of yellow powder and flicked it into the fire. The blaze flared up, orange and red, shadows leaping to the cave wall and cavorting like demons. Anshi Chen cleared his throat and sniffed loudly, his dark Nadir eyes flickering nervously left and right.

Kesa gave a thin smile. 'I have seen the dragon in the dream,' he said, his voice a sibilant whisper.

The colour fled from Anshi's face. 'Is it over, then? We are all dead?'

'Perhaps,' agreed Kesa, enjoying the fear he felt emanat­ing from the warrior.

'What can we do?'

'What the Nadir have always done. We will fight.'

'The Gothir have thousands of warriors, fine armour, swords of steel that do not dull. Archers. Lancers. How can we fight them?'

Kesa shook his head. 'I am not the Warlord of the Wolves, you are.'

'But you can read the hearts of our enemies! You could send demons to rip open their bellies. Or is Zhu Chao mightier than Kesa Khan?' For a moment there was silence then Anshi Chen leaned forward, bowing his head. 'Forgive me, Kesa. I spoke in anger.'

The shaman nodded sagely. 'I know. But there is truth in your fear. Zhu Chao is mightier. He can call upon the blood of many souls. The Emperor has a thousand slaves and many hearts have been laid upon the altar of the Dark God. And what do I have?' The little man twisted his body and pointed at the three dead chickens. He gave a dry laugh. 'I command few demons with those, Anshi Chen.'

'We could raid the Green Monkeys, steal some children,' offered Anshi.

'No! I will not sacrifice Nadir young.'

'But they are the enemy.'

'This day they are the enemy, but one day all Nadir will unite – this is written. This is the message Zhu Chao has carried to the Emperor. This is why the dragon is in the dream.'

'You cannot help us, then?'

'Do not be a fool, Anshi Chen. I am helping you now! Soon the Gothir will come against us. We must prepare for that day. Our winter camp must be close to the Mountains of the Moon, and we must be ready to flee there.'

"The Mountains?' whispered Anshi. 'But the demons…'

'It is that, or die. Your wives and your children, and the children of your children.'

'Why not flee south? We could ride hundreds of leagues from Gulgothir. We could merge with other tribes. How would they find us?'

'Zhu Chao would find you,' said Kesa. 'Be strong, warlord. From one among us will come the leader the Nadir have longed for. Can you understand that? The Uniter! He will end Gothir rule. He will give us the world.'

'I will live to see this?'

Kesa shook his head. 'But neither will I,' he told the chieftain.

'It will be as you say,' pledged Anshi. 'We will move our camp.'

'And send for Belash.'

'I don't know where he is.'

'South of the new Drenai fortress, in the mountains they call Skein. Send Shia to bring him.'

'Belash has no love for me, shaman. You know this.'

'I know many things, Anshi. I know that in the coming days we will rely on your steady judgement, and your calm skills. You are known and respected, as the Wily Fox. But I know we will need the power of Belash, the White Tiger in the Night. And he will bring another: he will give us the Dragon Shadow.'

Ekodas paused outside the Abbot's study, composing his thoughts. He loved life at the temple, its calm and camaraderie, the hours of study and meditation, even the physical exercises, running, archery and sword skills. In every way he felt a part of The Thirty.

Bar one.

He tapped at the door then pushed the latch. The room was lit by the golden light of three glass-sided lanterns and he saw Dardalion sitting at his desk, poring over a goatskin map. The Abbot looked up. In this gentle light he seemed younger, the silver highlights in his hair gleaming gold.

'Welcome, my boy. Come in and sit.' Ekodas bowed then strode to a chair. 'Shall we share thoughts, or would you like to speak out loud?' asked Dardalion.

'To speak, sir.'

'Very well. Vishna and Magnic tell me you are still troubled.'

'I am not troubled, Father. I know what I know.'

'You do not see this as arrogance?'

'No. My beliefs are only those that you enjoyed before your adventures with the killer, Waylander. Were you wrong then?'

'I do not believe that I was,' replied Dardalion. 'But then I no longer believe that there is only one road to the Source. Egel was a man of vision, and a believer. Three times a day he prayed for guidance. Yet he was also a soldier, and through him – aye, and Karnak – the lands of the Drenai were saved from the foe. He is dead now. Do you think the Source refused to take his soul to paradise?'

'I do not know the answer to that question,' said the young man, 'but what I do know is that I have been taught, by you and others, that love is the greatest gift of the Source. Love for all life, for all His Creation. Now you are saying that you expect me to lift a sword and take life. That cannot be right.'

Dardalion leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. 'Do you accept that the Source created the lion?'

'Of course.'

'And the deer?'

'Yes – and the lion slays the deer. I know this. I do not understand it, but I accept it.'

'I feel the need of flight,' said Dardalion. 'Join me.'

The Abbot closed his eyes. Ekodas settled himself more comfortably in the chair, resting his arms upon the padded wings then took a deep breath. The release of spirit seemed effortless to Dardalion, but Ekodas mostly found it extra­ordinarily difficult, as if his soul had many hooks into the flesh. He followed the lessons he had learned for the last ten years, repeating the mantras, cleansing the mind.

The dove in the temple, the opening door, the circle of gold upon the field of blue, the spreading of wings in agilded cage, the loosing of chains on the temple floor.

He felt the first loosening of his hold upon his body, as if he was floating in the warm waters of the womb. He was safe here, content. Feeling drifted back to him, his spine against the hard wood of the chair, his sandalled feet on the cold floor. No, no, he chided himself. You are losing it! His concentration deepened once more. But he could not soar.

Dardalion's voice whispered into his mind, 'Take my hand, Ekodas.'

A light shone golden and warming and Ekodas accepted the merging. The release was instant and his spirit broke clear of the temple of his body, soaring up through the second temple of stone to float high in the night sky above the land of Drenai.

'Why is it so difficult for me?' he asked the Abbot.

Dardalion, young again, his face unlined, reached out and touched his pupil's shoulder. 'Doubts are fears, my boy. And dreams of the flesh. Small guilts, meaningless but worrisome.'

'Where are we going, Father?'

'Follow and observe.' East they flew, across the glitter­ing, star-dappled Ventrian Sea. A storm raged here, and far below a tiny trireme battled the elements, great waves washing over her flat decks. Ekodas saw a sailor swept overboard, watched him fall below the waves, saw the gleaming spark of his soul float up and vanish.

The land appeared dark below them, the mountains and plains of Ventria stretching to the east, while here on the coast, brightly-lit towns and ports shone like jewels on a cloak of black. Dardalion flew down, down . . . The two priests hovered some hundred feet in the air and Ekodas saw the scores of ships harboured here, heard the pounding of the armourers' hammers in the town.

"The Ventrian battle fleet,' said Dardalion. 'It will sail within the week. They will attack Purdol, Erekban and Lentrum, landing armies to invade Drenai. War and devastation.'

He flew on, crossing the high mountains and swooping down over a city of marble, its houses laid out in a grid pattern of wide avenues and cluttered streets. There was a palace upon the highest hill, surrounded by high walls manned by many sentries in gold-embossed armour of white and silver. Dardalion flew into the palace, through the walls and drapes of silk and velvet, coming at last to a bedchamber where a dark-bearded man lay sleeping. Above the man hovered his spirit, formless and vague, unaware and unknowing.

'We could stop the war now,' said Dardalion, a silver sword appearing in his hand. 'I could slay this man's soul. Then thousands of Drenai farmers and soldiers, women and children, would be safe.'

'No!' exclaimed Ekodas, swiftly moving between the Abbot and the formless spirit of the Ventrian king.

'Did you think I would?' asked Dardalion, sadly.

'I … I am sorry, Father. I saw the sword and . . .'his voice tailed away.

'I am no murderer, Ekodas. And I do not know the complete Will of the Source. No man does. No man ever will, though there are many who claim such knowledge. Take my hand, my son.' The walls of the palace vanished and with bewildering speed the two spirits crossed the sea once more, this time heading north-east. Colours flashed before Ekodas' eyes and, if not for the firm grip of Dardalion's hand, he would have been lost in the swirling lights. Their speed slowed and Ekodas blinked, trying to adjust his mind.

Below him was another city with more palaces of marble. A huge amphitheatre to the west and a massive stadium for chariot races at the centre marked it as Gulgothir, the capital of the Gothir empire.

'What are we here to see, Father?' asked Ekodas.

'Two men,' answered Dardalion. 'We have crossed the gates of time to be here. The scene you are about to witness happened five days ago.'

Still holding to the young priest's hand Dardalion floated down over the high palace walls and into a narrow room behind the throne hall. The Gothir Emperor was seated on a silk-covered divan. He was a young man, no more than twenty, with large protruding eyes and a receding chin, which was partly hidden by a wispy beard. Before him, seated on a low stool, was a second man, dressed in long dark robes of shining silk, embroidered with silver. His hair was dark and waxed flat to his skull, the sideburns unnaturally long and braided, hanging to his shoulders. His eyes were slanted beneath high flared brows, his mouth a thin line.

'You say the empire is in danger, Zhu Chao,' spoke the Emperor, his voice deep, resonant and strong, belying the weakness of his appearance.

'It is, sire. Unless you take action your descendants will be overthrown, your cities vanquished. I have read the omens. The Nadir wait only for the day of the Uniter. And he is coming, from among the Wolfshead.'

'And how can I change this?'

'If wolves are killing one's sheep, one kills the wolves.'

'You are talking of an entire tribe among the Nadir.'

'Indeed, sire. Eight hundred and forty-four savages. They are not people as you and I understand the term. Their lives are meaningless, but their future sons could see an end to Gothir civilisation.'

The Emperor nodded. 'It will take time to gather sufficient men for the task. As you know, the Ventrians are about to invade the lands of the Drenai and I have plans of my own.'

'I understand that, sire. You will wish to reclaim the Sentran Plain as part of Gothir, which is only just and right, but that will take no more than ten thousand men. You have ten times that many under your command.'

'And I need them, wizard. There are always those who seek the overthrow of monarchs. I can spare you five thousand for this small task. In one month you will have the massacre you desire.'

'You misjudge me, sire,' put in Zhu Chao, bowing deeply and spreading his hands like a supplicant. 'I am thinking only of the future good of Gothir.'

'Oh, I believe in the prophecy, wizard. I have had other sorcerors and several shamen telling me similar stories, though none named a single tribe. But you have other reasons for wanting the Wolves destroyed, otherwise you would have traced the line of this Uniter back to one named man. Then the task would have been made so much more simple: one knife in the night. Never take me for a fool, Zhu Chao. You want them all dead for your own reasons.'

'You are all-wise, sire, and all-knowing,' whispered the wizard, falling to his knees and touching his forehead to the floor.

'No, I am not. And knowing that is my strength. But I will give you the deaths you desire. You have been a good servant to me, and never played me false. And as you say, they are only Nadir. It will sharpen the troops, give a cutting edge to the soldiers before the invasion of Drenan. I take it you will send your Brotherhood knights into the fray?'

'Of course, sire. They will be needed to combat the evil powers of Kesa Khan.'

The scene faded and Ekodas felt again the warm prison of his body. He opened his eyes to find Dardalion staring at him. 'Am I supposed to have learned something, Father Abbot? I saw only evil men, proud and ruthless. The world is full of such.'

'Yes, it is,' agreed Dardalion. 'And were we to spend our lives travelling the earth and slaying such men there would still be more of them at the end of our journey than there were at the beginning.'

'But surely that is my argument, Lord Abbot,' said Ekodas, surprised.

'Exactly. That is what you must consider. I appreciate your argument, and accept the premise on which it is made, and yet I still believe in the cause of The Thirty. I still believe we must be a Temple of Swords. What I would like you to do, Ekodas, is to lead the debate tomorrow evening. I will present your arguments as if they were my own. You will deliver mine.'

'But . . . that makes no sense, Father. I do not even begin to understand your cause.'

'Do the best that you can. I will make this debate an open vote. The future of The Thirty will depend upon the outcome. I will do my utmost to sway our brothers to your argument. You must do no less. If I win then the swords and armour will be returned to the storerooms and we will continue as an order of prayer. If you win we will await the guidance of the Source and ride to our destiny.'

'Why can I not argue my own beliefs?'

'You believe I will do them less than justice?'

'No, of course not, but. . .'

'Then it is settled.'