Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf

5

Morak listened to the reports as the hunters came in, his irritation growing. Nowhere was there any sign of Waylander, and the man Dakeyras had proved to be a balding redhead with a face that looked as if it had seen a stampede of oxen from underneath.

I hate forests, thought Morak, sitting with his back to the trunk of a willow, his green cloak wrapped tightly around him. I hate the smell of mould, the cold winds, the mud and the slime. He glanced at Belash, sitting apart from the others sharpening his knife with long sweeping strokes. The grating noise of the whetstone added to Morak's ill-humour.

'Well, somebody killed Kreeg,' he said at last. 'Some­body put a knife or an arrow through his eye.' No one spoke. They had found the body the previous day, wedged in the reeds of the River Earis.

'Could have been robbers,' said Wardal, a tall, thin bowman from the Forest of Graven, far to the south.

'Robbers?' sneered Morak. 'Hell's teeth! I've had lice with more brains than you! If it was robbers don't you think a fighter like Kreeg would have had more wounds? Don't you think there would have been a fight? Someone very skilful sent a missile through his eyeball. A man with rare talent is killed – that suggests to me he was slain by someone with more talent. Is my reasoning getting through to you?'

'You think it was Waylander,' muttered Wardal.

'A giant leap of the imagination. Many congratulations. The question is, where in Hell's name is he?'

'Why should he be easy to find?' asked Belash, suddenly. 'He knows we are here.'

'And what mighty spark of logic leads you to that conclusion?'

'He killed Kreeg. He knows.'

Morak felt a chill breeze blowing and shivered. 'Wardal, you and Tharic take the first watch.'

'What are we watching for?' enquired Tharic.

Morak closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 'Well,' he said at last, 'you could be watching for enormous elephants that will trample all over our supplies. But were I you, I would be alert for a tall man, dressed in black, who is rather good at sending sharp objects through eyeballs.' At that moment a tall figure stepped from the undergrowth. Morak's heart missed a beat, but then he recognised Baris. 'The normal procedure is to shout "Hallo the camp",' he observed. 'You took your time.'

The blond forester settled down by the fire. 'Kasyra is not a small place, but I found the whore Kreeg was living with. She told him about a man called Dakeyras who lives near here. I've got directions.'

'Wrong man,' said Morak. 'Wardal and Tharic already met him. What else did you find?'

'Little of interest,' answered Baris, pulling the remains of a loaf of bread from the pouch at his side. 'By the way, how long has Angel been a member of the Guild?'

'Angel? I've not heard that he is,' said Morak. 'Why?'

'He was in Kasyra a week or so back. Tavern-keeper recognised him. Senta is there, too. He said to tell you that when he finds your body he'll be sure to give it a fine burial.'

But Morak wasn't listening. He laughed and shook his head. 'Wardal, have you ever been to the arena?'

'Aye. Saw Senta fight there. Beat a Vagrian called . . . called . . .'

'Never mind! Did you ever see Angel fight?'

'Oh yes. Tough. Won some money on him once.'

'Would you remember his face at all?'

'Red hair, wasn't it?' answered Wardal.

'Correct, numbskull. Red hair. And a face his mother would disown. I wonder if the tiniest thought is trying to make its way through that mass of bone that houses your brain? If it is, do share it with us.'

Wardal sniffed loudly. 'The man at the cabin!'

'The man who said he was Dakeyras, yes,' said Morak. 'It was the right cabin, just the wrong man. Tomorrow you can return there. Take Bans and Tharic. No, that might not be enough. Jonas and Seeris as well. Kill Angel and bring the girl here.'

'He's a gladiator,' objected Jonas, a stout balding warrior with a forked beard.

'I didn't say fight him,' whispered Morak. 'I said kill him.'

'Wasn't nothing about no gladiators,' persisted Jonas. Tracking, you said. Find this Dakeyras. I've seen Angel fight as well. Don't stop, does he? Stick him, cut him, hit him . . . still keeps going.'

'Yes, yes, yes! I am sure he would be delighted to know you are among his greatest admirers. But he's older now. He retired. Just walk in, engage him in conversation, then kill him. If that sounds a little too difficult for you, then head for Kasyra – and kiss goodbye to any thought of a share in ten thousand gold pieces.'

'Why don't you kill him?' asked Jonas. 'You're the swordsman here.'

'Are you suggesting that I am frightened of him?' countered Morak, his voice ominously low.

'No, not at all,' answered Jonas, reddening. 'We all know how . . . skilled you are. I just wondered, that's all.'

'Have you ever seen the nobles hunt, Jonas?'

'Of course.'

'Have you noticed how, when chasing boar, they take hounds with them?'

The man nodded glumly. 'Good,' said Morak. 'Then take this thought into that pebble-sized brain: I am a hunting noble and you are my dogs. Is that clear? I am not being paid to kill Angel. I am paying you.'

'We could always shoot him from a distance, I suppose,' said Jonas. 'WardaFs very good with that bow.'

'Fine,' muttered Morak. 'Just so long as it is done. But bring the girl to me, safe and hearty. You understand? She is the key to Waylander.'

'That is against Guild rules,' said Belash. 'No innocents may be used . . .'

'I know the Guild rules!' snapped Morak. 'And when I want lessons in proper conduct I shall be sure to call on you. After all, the Nadir are well known for their rigid observance of civilised behaviour.'

'I know what you want from the girl,' said Belash. 'And it is not this key to her father.'

'A man is entitled to certain pleasures, Belash. They are what make living worthwhile.'

The Nadir nodded. 'I have known some men who share the same . . . pleasures … as you. When we catch them among the Nadir we cut off their hands and feet and stake them out over anthills. But then, as you say, we do not understand you civilised people.'

The face was huge and white as a fish belly, the eye sockets empty, the lids shaped like fangs, clacking as they closed. The mouth was lipless, the tongue enormous and cratered with tiny mouths.

Miriel took Krylla's hand, and the children tried to flee – but the demon was faster, stronger. One scaled hand closed on Miriel's arm, the touch burning.

'Bring them to me!' came a soft voice, and Miriel saw a man standing close by, his face also pale, his skin scaled like a beautiful albino snake. But there was nothing beautiful about the man. Krylla began to cry.

The monstrous creature that held them leaned over the children, touching the cavernous mouth to Miriel's face. She felt pain then, terrible pain. And she screamed.

And screamed . . .

'Wake up, girl,' said the demon, his hand once more on her shoulder. Her fingers snaked out, clawing at his face, but he grabbed her wrist. 'Stop this. It is me, Angel!'

Her eyes flared open and she saw the rafters of the cabin, the light of the moon seeping through the knife-thin gaps in the shutters, felt the rough wool of the blankets on her naked frame. She shuddered and fell back. He stroked her brow, pushing back the sweat-drenched hair.

'Just a dream, girl. Just a dream,' he whispered. She said nothing for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. Her mouth was dry and she sat up, reaching for the goblet of water by her bedside.

'It was a nightmare. Always the same one,' she said, between sips. 'Krylla and I were being hunted across a dark place, an evil place. Valleys without trees, a sky without sun or moon, grey, soulless.' She shivered. 'Demons caught us, and terrible men . . .'

'It's over,' he assured her. 'You are awake now.'

'It's never over. It's a dream now – but it wasn't then.' She shivered again, and he reached out, drawing her to him, his arms upon her back, his hand patting her. Lowering her head to his shoulder she felt better. The remembered cold of the Void was strong in her mind, and the warmth of his skin pushed it back.

'Tell me about it,' he said.

'It was after Mother died. We were frightened, Krylla and me. Father was acting strangely, shouting and weep­ing. We knew nothing about drunken men. And to see Father stumbling and falling was terrifying. Krylla and I used to sit in our room, holding hands. We used to soar our spirits high into the sky. We were free then. Safe – so we thought. But one night, as we played beneath the stars we realised we were not alone. There were other spirits in the sky with us. They tried to catch us, and we fled. We flew so fast, and with such terror in our hearts that we had no idea where we were. But the sky was grey, the land desolate. Then the demons came. Summoned by the men.'

'But you escaped from them.'

'Yes. No. Another man appeared, in silver armour. We knew him. He fought the demons, killing them, and brought us home. He was our friend. But he does not appear in my dreams now.'

'Lie back,' said Angel. 'Have a little gentle sleep.'

'No. I don't want the dream again.'

Pulling back the woollen blanket Angel slid in beside her, resting her head on his shoulder. 'No demons, Miriel. I shall be here to bring you back if there are.' Pulling the blanket up around them both he lay still. She could feel the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart and closed her eyes.

She slept for a little over an hour and awoke refreshed. Angel was sleeping soundlessly beside her. In the faint light of pre-dawn his ugliness was softened, and she tried to picture him as he had been all those years ago when he had brought her the dress. It was almost impossible. Her arm was draped across his chest and she slowly drew it back, feeling the softness of his skin and the contrasting ridges of hard muscle across his belly. He did not wake, and Miriel felt a powerful awareness of her own naked­ness. Her hand slid down, the tips of her fingers brushing over the pelt of tightly curled hair below his navel. He stirred. She halted all movement, aware now of her increased heartbeat. Fear touched her, but it was a delicious fear. There had been village boys who had filled her with longing, left her dreaming of forbidden trysts. But never had she felt like this, the onset of fear synchro­nised to her passion. Never had she been so aware of her desires. Her needs. His breathing deepened again. Her hand slid down, fingers caressing him, circling him, feeling him quicken and swell.

Doubt followed by panic suddenly flared within her. What if he opened his eyes? He could be angry at her boldness, might think her a whore. Which I am, she thought, with a burst of self-disgust. Releasing him she rolled from the bed. She had bathed the previous night, but somehow the thought of ice-cold water on her skin seemed not only pleasurable, but necessary. Moving carefully to avoid waking him she eased open the bed­room door and crossed the cabin floor.

Lifting the bar from its brackets she opened the main door and stepped out into the sunlit clearing before the cabin. The bushes and trees were still silvered with dew, the autumn sunlight weak upon her skin. How could she have acted so, she wondered as she strolled to the stream. Miriel had often dreamed of lovers, but never in her fantasies had they been ugly. Never had they been so old. And she knew she was not in love with the former gladiator. No, she realised, that's what makes you a whore. You just wanted to rut like an animal.

Reaching the stream she sat down on the grass, her feet dangling in the water. Flowing from the high mountains there were small rafts of ice on the surface, like frozen lilies. And it was cold.

She heard a movement behind her but, lost in thought, she was not swift enough, and as she rolled to her feet a man's hands caught her shoulder, hurling her to the grass. Ramming her elbow sharply back she connected with his belly. He grunted in pain and sagged across her. The smell of woodsmoke, greasy leather and stale sweat filled her nostrils and a bearded face fell against her cheek. Twisting she slammed the heel of her hand against the man's nose, snapping his head back. Scrambling to her feet she tried to run, but the man grabbed her ankle, and a second man leapt from hiding. Miriel's fist cracked against the new­comer's chin, but his weight carried him forward and she was knocked to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her.

'A real Hellcat,' grunted the second man, a tall blond forester. 'Are you all right, Jonas?' The first man struggled to his feet, blood seeping from his nose and streaming into his black beard.

'Hold her still, Baris. I've just the weapon to bring her to heel.' The balding warrior began to unfasten the thongs of his leggings, moving forward to stand over Miriel.

'You heard what Morak said. Unharmed,' objected Baris.

'I've never known a woman harmed by it yet,' responded Jonas.

Miriel, her arms and shoulders pinned, arched her back then sent her right foot slamming up between the forester's legs. Jonas grunted and slumped to his knees. Baris slapped her face, grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet. 'Don't give up, do you?' he snarled, slapping her again, this time with the back of his hand. Miriel sagged against him.

'That's better,' he said. Her head came up sharply, cannoning against his chin. He stumbled back, then drew his knife, his arm arcing back for the throw. Miriel, still half-stunned, threw herself to her right, rolling to her knees. Then she was up and running.

Another man jumped into her path, but she swerved round him, and almost made the clearing before a stone from a sling ricocheted from her temple. Falling to her knees she tried to crawl into the undergrowth, but the sound of running feet behind her told her she was finished. Her head ached, and her senses swam. Then she heard Angel's voice.

'Time to die, my boys.'

Miriel awoke in her own bed, a water-soaked cloth on her brow, her head throbbing painfully. She tried to sit up, but felt giddy then sick. 'Lie still,' said Angel. 'That was a nasty strike. You've a lump the size of a goose egg.'

'Did you kill them?' she whispered weakly.

'No. Never seen men run so fast. They sent up a cloud of dust. I have a feeling they knew me – it was very gratifying.'

Miriel closed her eyes. 'Don't tell my father I went out without weapons.'

'I won't. But it was stupid. What were you thinking of – the dream?'

'No, not the dream. I just … I was just stupid, as you say.'

'The man who never made a mistake never made anything,' he said.

'I'm not a man!'

'I'd noticed. But I'm sure it holds true for women. Two of the men were bleeding, so I'd guess you caused them some pain before they downed you. Well done, Miriel.'

'That's the first time you've praised me. Be careful. It might go to my head.'

He patted her hand. 'I can be a mean whoreson, I know that. But you're a fine girl – tough, strong, willing. I don't want to see your spirit broken – but I don't want to see your body broken, either. And I know only one way to teach. I'm not even sure I know that very well.'

She tried to smile, but the pain was growing and she felt herself slipping into sleep.

'Thank you,' she managed to say. 'Thank you for being there.'

From his high study window Dardalion saw the troop of lancers slowly climbing the winding path, twenty-five men in silver armour, cloaked in crimson, riding jet-black horses, their flanks armoured in chain-mail. At their head rode a man Dardalion knew well. Against the sleek, martial perfection of his men Karnak should have looked comical; overweight and dressed in clothes of clashing colours – red cloak, orange shirt, green trews tied with blue leggings and below them black riding boots, edged with a silver trim. But no one laughed at his eccentric dress. For this was the hero of Dros Purdol, the saviour of the Drenai.

Karnak the One-eyed.

The man's physical strength was legendary, but it paled against the colossal power of his personality. With one speech he could turn a motley group of farmers into sword-wielding heroes who would defy an army. Dardalion's smile faded. Aye, and they would die for him, had died for him – in their thousands. They would go on dying for him.

Vishna entered the study, his spirit voice whispering into Dardalion's mind, 'Will their arrival delay the Debate, Father?'

'No.'

'Was it wise to instruct Ekodas to argue the cause of right?'

'Is it the cause of right?' countered Dardalion, speaking aloud and swinging to face the dark-bearded Gothir nobleman.

'You have always taught me so.'

'We shall see, my boy. Now go down and escort the Lord Karnak to me. And see that his men are fed, the horses groomed. They have ridden far.'

'Yes, Father.'

Dardalion returned to the window, but he did not see the distant mountains, nor the storm clouds looming in the north. He saw again the cabin on the mountainside, the two frightened children, and the two men who had come to kill them. And he felt the weight of the weapon of death in his hands. He sighed. The cause of right? Only the Source knew.

He heard the sound of booming laughter from the winding stairs beyond his room, and felt the immense physical presence of Karnak even before the man crossed the threshold.

'Gods, but it is good to see you, old lad!' boomed Karnak, striding across the room and clasping a huge hand to Dardalion's shoulder. The man's smile was wide and genuine, and Dardalion returned it.

'And you, my lord. I see your dress sense is as colourful as ever.'

'Like it? The cloak is from Mashrapur, the shirt from a little weavery in Drenan.'

'They suit you well.'

'By Heaven you are a terrible liar, Dardalion. I expect your soul will burn in Hellfire. Now sit you down and let us talk of more important matters.' The Drenai leader moved round the desk to take Dardalion's chair, leaving the slender Abbot to sit opposite him. Karnak unbuckled his sword-belt, laying it on the floor beside him, then eased his great bulk into the seat. 'Damned uncomfortable furni­ture,' he said. 'Now, where were we? Ah, yes! What can you tell me about the Ventrians?'

'They will sail within the week, landing at Purdol, Erekban and the Earis estuary,' answered Dardalion.

'How many ships?'

'More than four hundred.'

'That many, eh? I don't suppose you'd consider whipping up a storm to sink the bastards?'

'Even if I could – which I can't – I would refuse such a request.'

'Of course,' said Karnak, with a wide grin. 'Love, peace, the Source, morality and so on. But there are some who could, yes?'

'So it is said,' agreed Dardalion, 'among the Nadir and the Chiatze. But the Ventrians have their own wizards, sir, and I don't doubt they'll be making sacrifices and casting spells to ensure good weather.'

'Never mind their problems,' snapped Karnak. 'Could you locate a demon conjurer for me?'

Now it was Dardalion who laughed. 'You are a wonder, my lord. And I shall do you the kindness of treating that request as a jest.'

'Which of course it wasn't,' said Karnak. 'Still, you've made your point. Now, what of the Gothir?'

'They have reached agreement with the Sathuli tribes, who will allow an invading force to pass unopposed to occupy the Sentran Plain once the Ventrians have landed. Around ten thousand men.'

'I knew it!' snapped Karnak, his irritation growing. 'Which legions?'

'The First, Second and Fifth. Plus two mercenary legions made up of Vagrian refugees.'

'Wonderful. The Second and the Fifth are not a worry to me – our spies say they are mostly raw recruits with little discipline. But the First are the Emperor's finest, and the Vagrians fight like pain-maddened tigers. Still, I have a week, you say. Much can happen in that time. We'll see. Tell me of the Sathuli leader.'

For more than an hour Karnak questioned Dardalion until, satisfied at last, he rose to leave. Dardalion raised his hand. 'There is another matter to be discussed, my lord.'

'There is?'

'Yes. Waylander.'

Karnak's face darkened. 'That is none of your affair, priest. I don't want you spying on me.'

'He is my friend, Karnak. And you have ordered his killing.'

'These are affairs of state, Dardalion. Damn it all, man, he killed the King. There has been a price on his head for years.'

'But that is not why you hired the Guild, my lord. I know the reason, and it is folly. Worse folly than you know.'

'Is that so? Explain it to me.'

'Two years ago, with the army treasury empty, and a rebellion on your hands, you received a donation from a merchant in Mashrapur, a man named Gamalian. One hundred thousand in gold. It saved you. Correct?'

'What of it?'

'The money came from Waylander. Just as this year's donation of eighty thousand Raq from the merchant, Perlisis, came from Waylander. He has been supporting you for years. Without him you would have been finished.'

Karnak swore and slumped back into his seat, rubbing a massive hand across his face. 'I have no choice, Dardalion. Can you not see that? You think I want to see the man killed? You think there is any satisfaction in it for me?'

'I am sure there is not. But in having him hunted you have unleashed a terrible force. He was living quietly in the mountains, mourning his wife. He was no longer Way­lander the Slayer, no longer the man to be feared, but day by day he is becoming Waylander again. And soon he will consider hunting down the man who set the price.'

'I'd sooner he tried that, than the other alternative,' said Karnak, wearily. 'But I hear what you say, priest, and I will think on it.'

'Call them off, Karnak,' pleaded Dardalion. 'Waylander is a force like no other, almost elemental, like a storm. He may be only one man, but he will not be stopped.'

'Death can stop any man,' argued Karnak.

'Remember that, my lord,' advised Dardalion.

It was the dog that found the remains of the old tinker. Waylander had been moving warily through the forest when the hound's head had lifted, its great black nostrils quivering. Then it had loped off to the left. Waylander followed and found the animal tearing rotting meat from the old man's leg.

The dog was not the first to find the body and the corpse was badly mauled.

Waylander made no attempt to call the dog away. There was a time when such a scene would have revolted him, but he had seen too much death since then: his memories were littered with corpses. He recalled his father walking him through the woods near their home in the valley, and they had come across a dead hawk. The child he had been was saddened by the sight. 'That is not the bird,' said his father. 'That is merely the cloak he wore.' The man pointed up to the sky. 'That is where the hawk is, Dakeyras. Flying towards the sun.'

Old Ralis had gone. What was left was merely food for scavengers, but cold anger flared in Waylander neverthe­less. The tinker had been harmless, and always travelled unarmed. There was no need for such senseless torture. But that was Morak's way. The man loved to inflict pain.

The tracks were easy to read and Waylander left the dog to feed and set off in pursuit of the killers. As he walked he studied the spoor. There were eleven men in the group, but they had soon split up. He knelt and examined the trail. There had been a meeting. One man – Morak? – had addressed the group, and they had paired and moved off. A single set of prints headed east, perhaps towards Kasyra. The others moved in different directions. They were quartering the forest, and that meant they did not know of the cabin. The old man had told them nothing.

Identifying the track of Morak, narrow-toed boots with deep heels, he decided to follow the Ventrian. Morak would not be wandering the forest in the search. He would find a place to wait. Waylander set off once more, moving with care, stopping often to scan the trees and the lines of the hills, keeping always to cover.

Towards dusk he halted and loaded his crossbow. Ahead of him was a narrow path, wending up a gentle rise. The wind had changed and he smelt woodsmoke coming from the south-west. Squatting by a huge, gnarled oak he waited for the sun to go down, his thoughts sombre. These men had come into the forest to kill him. That he understood; this was their chosen occupation. But the torture and murder of the old man had lit a cold fire in Waylander's heart.

They would pay for that deed.

And they would pay in kind.

A barn owl soared into the night seeking rodent prey and a grey fox padded across the path directly in front of the waiting man. But Waylander did not move, and the fox ignored him. Slowly the sun set, and night changed the personality of the forest. The whispering wind became the sibilant, ghostly hiss of a serpent's breath, the gentle trees stood stark and forbidding, and the moon rose, quarter full and curved like a Sathuii tulwar. A killer's moon.

Waylander eased himself to his feet and removed his cloak, folding it and laying it over a boulder. Then he moved silently up the slope, crossbow in hand. There was a sentry sitting beneath a tall pine. As a safeguard against being surprised he had scattered dry twigs in a wide circle around the base of the tree, and was now sitting on a fallen log, sword in hand. His hair was pale, almost silver in the moonlight.

Waylander laid his crossbow on the ground and moved out behind the seated man, his moccasined feet gently brushing aside the twigs. His left hand seized the man's hair, dragging back his head, his right swept out and across, the black blade slicing jugular and vocal chords. The sentry's feet thrashed out, but blood was gouting from his throat and within seconds all movement had ceased. Waylander eased the body to the ground and walked back to where his crossbow lay. The campfire was some thirty paces to the north and he could see a group of men sitting around it. Moving closer he counted them. Seven. Three were unaccounted for. Silently he circled the camp, finding two more of the assassins standing guard. Both died before they were even aware of danger.

Closer to the fire now Waylander puzzled over the missing man. Was it the one sent towards Kasyra? Or was there a sentry he had not located? He scanned the group by the fire. There was Morak, sitting on the far side, wrapped in a green cloak. But who was missing? Belash! The Nadir knife-fighter.

Keeping low to the ground Waylander moved into the deeper shadows of the forest, stopping only once to smear his face with mud. His clothes were black, and he merged into the darkness. Where in Hell's name was the Nadir? He closed his eyes, letting the soft sounds of the forest sweep over him. Nothing.

Then he smiled. Why worry about what you cannot control, he thought. Let Belash worry about me! He slid out from his hiding place and angled in towards the camp. A little confusion was called for.

There was a screen of low bushes to the north of the campsite. Dropping to all fours Waylander edged closer then rose, crossbow pointed. The first bolt crashed through a man's temple, the second plunged into the heart of a bearded warrior as he leapt to his feet.

Ducking, Waylander ran to the south then traversed a slope and moved north once more, coming up to the camp from the opposite side. It was, as he had expected, deserted now, save for the two corpses. Reloading the crossbow he squatted down in the shadows and waited. Before long he heard movement to his right. He grinned and dropped to his belly.

'Any sign of him?' whispered Waylander.

'No,' came the reply from close by. Waylander sent two bolts in the direction of the voice. The thudding of the impacting bolts was followed by a grunt and the sound of a falling body.

Fool! thought Waylander, easing himself back into the undergrowth.

The moon disappeared behind a thick bank of cloud. Total darkness descended on the forest. Waylander crouched low, waiting, listening. Taking two bolts from his small quiver he waited for the night breeze to rustle the leaves above him before pulling back the strings and loading the weapon, the forest sounds covering the slight noise of the bolts slipping into place. The wounded man he had shot cried out in pain, begging for help. But no one came.

Waylander crept deeper into the forest. Had they run, or were they hunting him? The Nadir would not run. Morak? Who knew what thoughts filled the mind of a torturer.

To his left was an ancient beech, its trunk split. Waylander looked at the sky. The moon was still hidden, but the clouds were breaking. Stepping up to the trunk he reached up with his left hand and swiftly hauled himself to the lowest branch, climbing some twenty feet up into the tree.

The moon shone bright, and he ducked down. Below him the forest was lit by eldritch light. He scanned the undergrowth. One man was crouched behind a section of gorse. A second was close by. This one carried a short Vagrian hunting bow, a barbed arrow notched to the string. Laying down the crossbow Waylander traversed the trunk and sought out the others. But no one else could be seen.

Returning to his original position, he watched the two hidden men for some time. Neither moved, save to glance around fearfully. And neither made any attempt to com­municate with the other. Waylander wondered if each knew of the other's presence so close by.

Reaching into his pouch he pulled clear a large triangular copper coin, and this he threw into the screen of bushes close to the first assassin. The man swore and lunged up. Immediately the second man spun round and loosed an arrow which tore into the first man's shoulder.

'You puking idiot!' shouted the wounded man.

'I'm sorry!' answered the bowman, dropping the bow and moving forward to his comrade's side. 'Is it bad?'

Waylander dropped quietly to the ground on the other side of the tree.

'You damn near killed me!' complained the first man.

'Wrong,' said Waylander. 'He has killed you.'

A bolt punched through the man's skull just above his nose. The bowman leapt to his right, diving for cover, but Waylander's second bolt lanced through his neck. An arrow flashed by Waylander's face, burying itself in the trunk of the ancient beech. Ducking he ran for cover, hurling himself over a fallen tree and scrambling up a short steep bank into dense undergrowth.

Three left.

And one of these was the Nadir!

Sword in hand Morak hid behind a large boulder, listening for any signs of movement. He was alone, and filled with the fear of death.

How many were dead already?

The man was a demon! The hilt of his sword was greasy with sweat, and he wiped it on his cloak. His clothes were filthy, his hands mud-streaked. This was no place for a nobleman to die, surrounded by filth and worms and rotted leaves. He had fought men before, blade to blade, and knew he was no coward, but the dark of the forest, the hissing of the wind, the sibilant rustling of the leaves and the knowledge that Waylander was moving towards him like Death's shadow, almost unmanned him.

A movement from behind caused his heart to palpitate. He swung, trying to bring up his sword, but Belash's powerful hand gripped his wrist. 'Follow me,' whispered the Nadir, easing back into the undergrowth. Morak was more than willing to obey and the two men crept towards the south, Belash leading the way down the slope to where Waylander's cloak lay upon a boulder.

'He will come back here,' said Belash, keeping his voice low.

Morak saw that the Nadir was carrying a short hunting bow of Vagrian horn, a quiver of arrows slung across his broad shoulders. 'What about the others?' he asked.

'Dead – all except Jonas. He loosed a shaft at Way­lander, but it missed. Jonas dropped his bow and ran.'

'Cowardly scum!'

Belash grinned. 'Bigger share for us, yes?'

'I didn't think you were interested in coin. I thought this was just an exercise in valiant behaviour. You know, Father's bones and all that.'

'No time for talk, Morak. You sit here and rest. I will be close by.'

'Sit here? He'll see me.'

'Of course. It is a small crossbow – he will come in close. Then I'll kill him.'

Morak uttered a foul curse. 'What if he just creeps up and lets fly before you see him?'

'Then you die,' said Belash.

'Quaint sense of humour you have. Why don't you sit here? I'll take the bow.'

'As you wish,' answered Belash contemptuously, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. He handed Morak the weapon then folded his arms and sat, staring towards the south. Morak faded back into the undergrowth and notched an arrow to the string.

The moonlight cast spectral shadows on the small clearing where Belash waited and Morak shivered. What if Waylander were to come from a different direction? What if, even now, he was creeping silently through the forest behind him? Morak swung his head, but could see nothing untoward. But then who could see anything in this cursed gloom!

The Nadir's plan was a simple one, born of a simple mind. But they were not dealing with a simpleton. If he stayed here he could die. There was no certainty to the plan. Yet if he left the Nadir behind, then Belash would feel betrayed. And if he survived, the Nadir would then hunt him down. Morak toyed with the thought of taking the risk, of slipping away quietly, but Belash was a woodsman of almost mystical skill. He would hear him – and give chase immediately. An arrow then – straight through the back. No. The Nadir was strong. What if it failed to kill immediately? Morak knew he could best Belash sword to sword, but the Nadir's immense strength might bring him in close enough to use that wicked dagger . . . That was a thought he didn't enjoy.

Think, man!

Dropping the bow, Morak felt around the soft earth until his fingers closed on a large stone the size of his fist. This was the answer. Standing, he walked back out into the clearing. Belash glanced round.

'What is wrong?'

'I have another plan,' he said.

'Yes?'

'Is that him?' hissed Morak, pointing to the north. Belash's head jerked round.

'Where?'

The stone cracked against the back of the Nadir's neck. Belash fell forward. Morak hit him again. Then again. The Nadir slumped to the ground. Morak dropped the stone and drew his dagger. Always best to make sure. Then he heard movement in the undergrowth. Backing away from the sound, Morak turned and ran, sprinting down the track.

And did not see the ugly hound that emerged from the bushes.

Belash floated up from the darkness to a painful awaken­ing. Soft earth was against his face and his head pounded. He tried to rise, but nausea swamped him. Reaching up he touched the back of his neck. The blood was beginning to congeal. His hand moved down to his belt. The knife was still in its sheath. For a while he struggled to remember what had happened. Had Waylander come upon them?

No. I would now be dead.

His mouth was dry. Something cold pushed against his face. He turned his head and found himself staring into the baleful eyes of a huge, scarred hound. Belash lay perfectly still, save for his hand which inched slowly towards his knife.

'That would not be wise,' said a cold voice.

At first he thought it was the hound that had spoken to him. A devil dog come to claim his soul?

'Here, dog!' came the voice again. The hound padded away. Belash forced himself to his knees, and saw the black-garbed figure sitting on the boulder. The man's crossbow was now hanging from his belt, his knives sheathed.

'How did you surprise me?' asked Belash.

'I didn't. Your friend – Morak? – struck you from behind.'

Belash tried to stand, but his legs were too weak and he slumped back. Slowly he rolled to his back then, taking hold of the jutting branch of a fallen tree he pulled himself to a sitting position. 'Why am I still alive?' he asked.

'You intrigue me,' the man told him.

Truly the ways of the southerners are mysterious, thought Belash, leaning his head against the rough bark of the tree trunk. 'You left me my weapons. Why?'

'I saw no reason to remove them.'

'You think I am so poor an opponent that you need not fear me?'

The man chuckled. 'I never yet met a Nadir who could be described as a poor opponent, but I have seen many head wounds – and yours will leave you weak for several days, if not longer.'

Belash did not reply. Bracing his legs beneath him he rose unsteadily and then sat back upon the tree. His head was spinning, but he preferred to be on his feet. He was only some three paces from Waylander, and he wondered if he could draw the knife and catch the man unawares. It was unlikely, but it was the only chance he had to stay alive.

'Don't even think of it,' said Waylander softly.

'You read thoughts?'

'I don't need any special skill to understand a Nadir mind, not when it comes to battle. But you wouldn't make it – trust me on that. Are you Notas?'

Belash was surprised. Few southerners understood the complex structures governing the Nadir tribes and their compositions. Notas meant no tribe, an outcast. 'No. I am of the Wolves.'

'You are a long way from the Mountains of the Moon.'

'You have walked among the Tent-people?'

'Many times. Both as friend and enemy.'

'What was the name the Nadir gave you?' enquired Belash.

The man smiled thinly. 'They called me the Soul Stealer. And an old Notas leader once gave me the name Oxskull.'

Belash nodded. 'You rode with the giant, Ice-eyes. There are songs about you – dark songs, of dark deeds.'

'And they are true,' admitted the man.

'What happens now?'

'I haven't decided. I will take you to my home. You can rest there.'

'Why do you think I would not kill you, once my strength has returned?'

'The Guild allows no Nadir members. Therefore you were to be paid by Morak. Judging by the lumps on your skull I would say that Morak has terminated your employ­ment. What would you gain by killing me?'

'Nothing,' agreed Belash. Except the honour of being the man who slew the Soul Stealer. And surely the Mountains would look kindly upon the man who avenged the theft of the treasure? Surely they would then grant him the vengeance he sought.

Waylander moved forward. 'Can you walk?'

'Yes.'

'Then follow me.' The tall man strode away, his broad back an inviting target.

Not yet, thought Belash. First let me find my strength.