Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf

8

Hewla eased her frame up from the wicker chair and winced as pain flared in her arthritic hip. The fire was dying down and she slowly bent to lift a log on to the glowing coals. There was a time when her fires needed no fuel, when she had not been forced to walk the forest gathering twigs and sticks.

'Curse you, Zhu Chao,' she whispered. But the words only made her the more angry, for once such a curse would have been accompanied by the beating of demon wings and the harsh raucous cries of the Vanshii as they flew to their victim.

How could you have been so stupid? she asked herself.

I was lonely.

Yes, but now you are still lonely, and the grimoires are gone.

She shivered and added another thick stick to the fire, which hungrily devoured it. It was small consolation that the Books of Spellfire would be virtually useless to Zhu Chao. For the spells contained in them had given Hewla life, long after her skin should have turned to dust, had held at bay the mortal pain of her inflamed joints. The six books of Moray Sen. Priceless. She remembered the day she had shown them to him, opening the secret compartment behind the firestone. She had believed in him then, the young Chiatze. Loved him. She shuddered. Old fool.

He had taken the grimoires she had schemed for, killed for, sold her soul for.

Now the Void beckoned.

Waylander will kill him, she thought with grim relish.

The room was becoming warmer and Hewla was at last feeling some comfort from the heat. But then an icy blast of freezing air touched her back. The old woman turned. The far wall was shimmering and a cold, cold wind was blowing through it, scattering scrolls and papers. A clay goblet on the table trembled and fell, rolling to the floor, shattering. The wind grew stronger. Hewla's shawl flew back, falling across the fire, and the old woman stumbled against the power of the demon wind.

A dark shape appeared by the wall, silhouetted against icy flames.

Hewla's hand came up and a bright light blazed from her fingers, surrounding the demon. The wind died down, but she felt the creature's elemental power pushing back against the light. A taloned hand clawed through. Flames burst around it and it withdrew.

A flickering figure appeared to her left, and she saw Zhu Chao's image forming.

'I have brought an old friend to see you, Hewla,' he said.

'Rot in Hell,' she hissed.

He laughed at her. 'I see you retain some vestiges of power. Tell me, hag, how long do you think you can hold him from you?'

'What do you want from me?'

'I cannot master the first of the Five Spells. Something is missing from the grimoires. Tell me and you shall live.'

Once again the taloned hand tore through the light. Flames seared it, but not as powerfully as before. Fear swelled in Hewla's heart and, had she believed Zhu Chao's promise, she might have told him. But she did not.

'What is missing is something you will never find – courage!' she said. 'You will grow older, your powers fading. And when you die your soul will be carried screaming to the Void.'

'You foolish old crone,' he whispered. 'All the books speak of the Mountains of the Moon. The answers lie there. I shall find them.'

Talons ripped at the light, and it parted like a torn curtain. The dark shape loomed in the room. As swiftly as she could, Hewla drew the small curved dagger from the sheath at her waist.

'I will wait for you in the Void,' she promised.

Holding the dagger blade beneath her left breast she plunged it home.

Senta sat quietly on the wall of the well, watching Waylander and Miriel some distance away. The man had his hand on the girl's shoulder. Her head was bowed. Senta did not need to guess at the subject of their conversation. He had heard Waylander telling Angel of the death of Miriel's sister.

Senta looked away. His broken nose was sending shafts of pain behind his eyes and he felt sick. In his four years in the arena he had not felt pain like this. Minor cuts, and once a twisted ankle, were all the swordsman had suffered. But then those fights had been governed by rules. With a man like Waylander there were no rules. Only survival.

Despite his pain Senta felt relieved. He had no doubt that he would have killed the older man in a duel, though if he had, there would still have been Angel to face. And it would have saddened him to slay the old gladiator. But, more than that, it would have wrecked any chance with Miriel.

Miriel. . .

His first sight of her had shocked him, and he still didn't know why. The noblewoman, Gilaray, had a more beauti­ful face. Nexiar was infinitely more shapely. Suri's golden hair and flashing eyes were far more provocative. Yet there was something about this mountain girl that had fired his senses. But what?

And why marriage? He could hardly believe he'd made the offer. How would she take to life in the city? He focused on her once more, picturing her in a gown of silver satin, pearls laced through her dark hair. And chuckled.

'What is amusing you?' asked Angel, strolling to where he sat.

'I was thinking of Miriel at the Lord Protector's Ball, in a flowing dress and with her knives strapped to her fore­arms.'

'She's too good for the likes of you, Senta. Far too good.'

'That's a matter of opinion. Would you sooner see her standing behind a plough, old before her time, her breasts flat, like two hanged men?'

'No,' admitted Angel, 'but I'd like to see her with a man who loved her. She's not like Nexiar, or any of the others. She's like a colt – fast, sleek, unbroken.'

Senta nodded. 'I think you are right.' He glanced up at the gladiator. 'How very perceptive of you, my friend. You do surprise me.'

'I surprise myself sometimes. Like asking Waylander not to kill you. I'm regretting it already.'

'No, you're not,' said Senta, with an easy smile.

Angel grunted a short obscenity and sat beside the swordsman. 'Why did you have to talk of marriage?'

'You think I'd have been better advised to suggest rutting with her under a bush?'

'It would have been more honest.'

'I don't think it would,' said Senta softly. He became aware of Angel staring at him and felt himself blushing.

'Well, well,' said Angel. 'That I should live to see the great Senta smitten. What would they say in Drenan?'

Senta grinned. 'They'd say nothing. The entire city would be swept away under an ocean of tears.'

'I thought you were going to marry Nexiar. Or was it Suri?'

'Beautiful girls,' agreed Senta.

'Nexiar would have killed you. She damn near did for me.'

'I heard the two of you were close once. Is it true that she was so repulsed by your ugliness that, when in bed, she insisted you wore your helmet?'

Angel laughed. 'Close. She had a velvet mask made for me.'

'Ah, but I like you, Angel. Always did. Why did you ask him to spare me?'

'Why didn't you kill him when he approached you?' countered Angel.

Senta shrugged. 'My great-grandfather was a congenital idiot. My father was convinced I took after him. I think he was right.'

'Answer the question, damn you!'

'He had no weapon in his hand. I have never killed an unarmed man. It's not in me. Does that satisfy you?'

'Aye, it does,' admitted Angel. His head came up, nostrils flaring. Without a word he strode back to the cabin, emerging moments later with his sword strapped to his waist. The sound of walking horses came to Senta and he loosened his sabres in their scabbards, but remained where he was at the well. Belash came into sight, stepping from the cabin doorway, knife in his right hand, whetstone in his left. Waylander said something to Miriel, and she vanished into the cabin, then the black-garbed warrior lifted his double crossbow from the hook on his belt, swiftly drawing back the strings and notching two bolts into place.

The first of the horsemen came into view. He wore a full-faced helm of gleaming black metal, a black breast­plate and a blood-red cloak. Behind him came seven identical warriors, each riding black geldings, none less than sixteen hands high. Senta stood and strolled to where Waylander and the others were standing.

The horsemen reined in before the cabin, the horses forming a semi-circle around the the waiting men. No one spoke and Senta felt his skin crawl as he scanned the black knights. Only their eyes could be seen, through thin rectangular slits in the black helms. The expressions were all the same – cold, expectant, confident.

Finally one of them spoke. Senta could not tell which one, for the voice was muffled by the helm.

'Which of you is the wolfshead Dakeyras?'

'I am,' replied Waylander, addressing the rider directly before him.

'The Master has sentenced you to death. There is no appeal.'

The knight reached a black gauntleted hand to his sword-hilt, drawing the blade slowly. Waylander started to lift the crossbow – but his hand froze, the weapon still pointing at the ground. Senta looked at him, surprised, and saw the muscles of his jaw clench, his face redden with effort.

Senta drew the first of his sabres and prepared to attack the horsemen, but even as the blade came clear he saw one of the horsemen glance towards him, felt the man's cold stare touch him like icy water. Senta's limbs froze, a terrible pressure bearing down on him. The sabre sagged in his hand.

The black knights dismounted and Senta heard the whispering of steel swords being drawn from scabbards. Something bounced at his feet, rolling past him. It was the whetstone Belash had been carrying.

He struggled to move, but his arms felt as if they were made of stone.

And he saw a black sword rising towards his throat.

Inside the cabin Miriel lifted Kreeg's crossbow from the wall, flicking open the winding arms and swiftly rotating them, drawing the string back to the bronze notch. Selecting a bolt she pressed it home and swung back towards the door.

A tall knight stepped into the doorway, blocking out the light. For a moment only she froze. Then the bow came up.

'No,' whispered a sibilant voice in her mind.

A terrible lethargy flowed into her limbs and she felt as if a stream of warm, dark water was seeping through the corridors of her mind, drawing out her soul, emptying her memories. It was almost welcome, a cessation of fear and concern, a longing for the emptiness of death. Then a bright light flared, deep within her thoughts, holding back the black tidal wave of warm despair. And she saw, silhouetted against the light, the silver warrior who had rescued her as a child.

'Fight them!' he ordered. 'Fight them, Miriel! I have opened the doorways to your Talent. Seek it! And live!'

She blinked, and tried to aim the crossbow, but it was so heavy, so terribly heavy . . .

The black knight walked further into the room. 'Give me the weapon,' he said, his voice muffled by the helm. 'And I will give you joys you have not yet even dreamed of.' As he approached Miriel saw Waylander on his knees in the dust of the clearing, a black bladed sword raised above his head.

'No! she shouted. The crossbow tilted to the right. She squeezed the bronze trigger. The bolt slashed through the air, plunging into the black helm and disappearing up to the flights. The black knight toppled forward.

Outside, Waylander, suddenly free of the spell, threw himself to the left as the sword hissed down. Hitting the ground on his shoulder he rolled and let fly the first of his bolts. It took the swordsman under the right armpit, cleaving through to the lungs.

A dark shadow fell across him. Waylander rolled again – but not swiftly enough! A black sword flashed for his face. The hound sprang across the fallen man, its great fangs closing on the swordsman's wrist. Belash took one running step then launched himself feet-first at the knight, cannoning the man from his feet. The Nadir landed lightly and hurled himself on the assailant, driving his knife under the chinstrap of the black helmet and up into the man's brain.

The hound's angry growling panicked the horses. They reared, and – save for one gelding – bolted.

Free of the spell, Senta brought up his sabre, barely blocking the blade thrusting for his throat. He parried a second cut and, twisting his wrist, sent a vicious return that clanged against the knight's neck gorget of reinforced chain mail. Senta shoulder-charged the warrior, spinning him from his feet. A second man attacked, but this time Senta swayed aside from the killing thrust and rammed his sabre up under the man's helmet, the point slicing through the soft skin beneath the chin, and on up through his mouth. The knight fell back. Senta lost hold of the sabre and drew his second blade.

Angel, his back to the cabin wall, was battling against two knights, the former gladiator desperately blocking and parrying. Waylander sent a bolt through the thigh of the first assailant. The man grunted in pain and half-turned. Angel's sword smashed against the knight's helm, cutting through the chinstrap. The helm fell loose. Waylander's sword clove through the man's skull. Angel sidestepped a lunge from the second knight, grabbed the man's arm and hauled him, head-first, into the wall. Dropping to the man's back Angel took hold of the helm, dragging it back and sharply to the left. The knight's neck snapped with a stomach-wrenching crack.

'Look out!' yelled Senta. Waylander dropped to one knee. A sword-blade sliced the air above him. Waylander flung himself backwards, hammering into his attacker and hurling the man from his feet. Senta leapt at the man. His opponent reared to his feet, then lunged. Senta swayed aside, ramming his elbow into the man's helm. The knight staggered. Senta leaned back and kicked out, his booted foot cracking against the knight's knee. The joint gave way. The knight screamed in pain as he fell. Belash threw himself on the fallen warrior, pulling back the neck-guard and driving his knife deep into the knight's throat.

Miriel, the crossbow loaded once more, stepped from the cabin. The last knight ran to the one horse that had not bolted and leapt for the saddle, grabbing the pommel. The horse reared and began to run, dragging the knight with it. The hound bounded after it. Miriel brought the crossbow to her shoulder and sighted the weapon. The bolt sang clear and flashed across the clearing to punch home into the knight's helm. For several seconds he clung to the pommel, but as the horse reached the rise the man's fingers loosened and he fell to the earth. Instantly the dog was upon him, fangs ripping at the dead man's throat, but unable to pierce the chain mail. Waylander called to the hound and it loped back across the clearing, standing close, its flanks pressing against Waylander's leg.

Slowly the swirling dust in the clearing settled back to the earth.

One knight moaned, but Belash sprang upon him, ripping the man's helmet clear and cutting his throat. Another – the first to attack Senta – reared up and ran for the trees. The hound set off in pursuit, but Waylander called out to it and it paused, staring back at its master.

Miriel slowly turned the winding arms of the crossbow, then, with the weapon strung, walked back into the cabin to fetch a bolt.

'He's getting away!' shouted Senta.

'I don't think so,' said Waylander softly.

Miriel reappeared and offered the bow to Waylander. He shook his head. The knight had reached the rise and was scrambling up the slope.

'Allow for the fact that you are shooting uphill,' advised Waylander.

Miriel nodded. The bow came up and, apparently without sighting, she loosed the bolt. It took the knight low in the back. He arched up, then tumbled down the slope. Belash, his bloody knife in hand, ran across to the fallen man, wrenching off the helm and preparing for the killing thrust.

'Dead!' he called back.

'Nicely done,' said Waylander.

'What in Hell's name were they?' asked Angel.

The Brotherhood,' Waylander told him. 'They have hunted me before. Sorceror knights.'

Belash strolled back to where the others stood. He glanced at Miriel. 'One damn fine archer,' he said. 'For a kol-isha,' he added, after a pause. 'I'll fetch the horses.' Sheathing his knife he strolled away to the south.

Miriel dropped the crossbow and rubbed her eyes. All around her she could hear the buzzing of angry insects, but she could see nothing. She tried to concentrate on the sounds, separating them.

'. . . do that. . . witch. . . powers. . . Brotherhood. . .Kai . . . pain . . . escape . . . Durmast . . . Danyal . . .' And she realised she was hearing the fragmented thoughts of the men around her. Belash thought her possessed, Waylander was reliving his last battle with the Brotherhood when the giant Durmast had died to save him. Senta was staring at her, his passion aroused.

She felt Angel move behind her, and a wave of emotion swept over her, warm and protective, strong, enduring. His hand touched her shoulder.

'Do not concern yourself. I am not injured,' she said. She felt his confusion, and turned towards him. 'You remember my Talent, Angel?'

'Yes.'

'It is back!'

'You have very powerful enemies,' said Senta, as Waylander retrieved his bolts from the two dead knights.

'I'm still alive,' Waylander pointed out, moving past him and into the cabin, where he slumped down in the wide leather chair. His head was pounding and he rubbed at his eyes. There was no relief. Miriel joined him.

'Let me help you,' she said softly. Her hand touched his neck. Instantly all pain flowed away from him. He sighed, his dark eyes looking up to meet her gaze.

'You saved us. You destroyed their spell.'

'It broke their concentration when I killed the leader,' she said. Miriel knelt before him, her hands resting on his knees. 'Why did you lie to me?' she asked him.

'What lie?' he replied, averting his eyes.

'You said we were going north to escape the assassins.'

'And we are.'

'No. You are seeking Bodalen. Hewla told you where to find him.'

'What else do you know?' he asked wearily.

'Too much,' she answered.

He sighed. 'You found your Talent. I thought it was gone forever.'

'It was given back to me by the man who stole it. You remember when Mother died and you began to drink strong wine? And how you woke up one morning and there were bloodstains in the clearing, and a shallow grave with two corpses? You thought you'd killed them while drunk. You couldn't remember. You asked Krylla and me about them. We said we didn't know. And we didn't. It was your friend, Dardalion. The men were coming to capture us, perhaps to kill us, because we had the Talent. Dardalion stopped them – killed them with your crossbow.'

'He swore never to kill again,' whispered Waylander.

'He had no choice. You were drunk and unconscious, and the weapon carried so much death and violence that it swamped him.' Waylander hung his head, wishing to hear no more, but unwilling to stop her. 'He closed off our Talent. And he took away the memories of the demons and the man who tried to capture our souls. He did it to protect us.'

'But now you remember it all?'

'Yes.'

'I did my best, Miriel… Do not read my thoughts . . . my life.'

'It is too late.'

He nodded and stood. 'Then do not hold me in too great a contempt.'

'Oh, Father!' Stepping forward she embraced him. 'How could I hold you in contempt? I love you. I always have.'

Relief washed over him, and he closed his eyes as he held her. 'I wanted you to be happy – like Krylla. I wanted a good life for you.'

'I have had a good life. And I have been happy,' she told him. She drew back from him and smiled, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek. 'The packs are ready, and we should move.' She closed her eyes. 'Belash has found the horses and will be here soon.'

Taking hold of her shoulders he drew her in to him once more. 'You could head south with Angel,' he said. 'I have money in Drenan.'

She shook her head. 'You need me.'

'I do not want to see you . . . hurt.'

'Everyone dies, Father,' she said. 'But this is no longer just a private war between you and Karnak. I wonder if it ever was.'

'What is it, then?'

'I don't know yet, but Karnak did not send the Brother­hood. When I killed the last man he had an image in his mind. He was thinking of a tall man, with black hair, greased to his skull. Slanted eyes, long robes of dark purple. He it was who sent them. And he is the same man who tried to hurt Krylla and me; the man who summoned the demons.'

'From where did the Dark Knights come?'

'Dros Delnoch, and before that Gulgothir.'

'Then that is where the answers lie,' he said.

'Yes,' she agreed, sadly.

Angel watched the Nadir leading the five horses across the clearing. Disgusting little savage, he thought! Everything about Belash sickened him, the slanted, soulless eyes, the cruel mouth, the man's barbaric method of killing. It made Angel's skin crawl. He glanced north at the distant mountains. Beyond these the Nadir bred like lice, living their short, violent lives engaged in one bloody war after another. There had never been a Nadir poet, nor an artist nor a sculptor. And never would be! What a vile people, thought Angel.

'Uses that knife well,' observed Senta.

'Bastard Nadir,' grunted Angel.

'I thought your first wife was part-Nadir?'

'She was not!' snapped Angel. 'She was . . . Chiatze. They're different. The Nadir are not human. Devils, all of them.'

'Canny fighters, though.'

'Talk about something else!' demanded Angel.

Senta chuckled. 'How did you know they were coming? You walked away and fetched your sword from the cabin.'

Angel frowned, then smiled, his mood clearing. 'I smelt horse dung – the breeze was blowing from the south. I thought they might be more assassins. I wish they had been. Shemak's balls, but I was frightened when that spell fell upon me. I'm still not over it. To just stand, unable to move, while a swordsman approached me . . .' He shud­dered. 'It was like my worst nightmare.'

'Not something I'd like to repeat,' agreed Senta. 'Waylander said they were the Brotherhood. I thought they were wiped out in the Vagrian Wars.'

Angel's pale eyes scanned the bodies. 'Well, they obviously weren't.'

'What do you know of them?'

'Precious little. There are legends of a sorcerer who founded the order, but I can't remember his name, nor where they began. Ventria, I think. Or was it further east? They were called the Blood Knights at one time, because of the sacrifices. Or was it the Crimson Knights?'

'Forget it, Angel. I think "precious little" covered it.'

'I never was much of a history student.'

Belash approached them. 'They are the Knights of Blood,' he said. "The first of their temples was built in Chiatze three hundred years ago, founded by a wizard named Zhi Zhen. They became very powerful and tried to overthrow the Emperor. Zhi Zhen was captured after many battles and impaled on a golden spike. But the Order did not die out. It spread west. The Vagrian General Kaem used Brotherhood priests at the Siege of Purdol. Now they have reformed in Gothir, under a wizard named Zhu Chao.'

'You are well-informed,' said Senta.

'One of them killed my father.'

'Well, they can't be all bad,' said Angel.

Belash stood for a moment, his flat features expression­less, his dark eyes locked to Angel's face. Then he nodded slowly and walked away.

'That shouldn't have been said,' chided Senta.

'I don't like him.'

'That's no excuse for bad manners, Angel. Insult the living, not the dead.'

'I speak my mind,' muttered Angel, but he knew Senta was right, and the insult left a bad taste in his mouth.

'Why do you hate them so?'

'I witnessed a massacre. Sixty miles north of the Delnoch Pass. My father and I were travelling from Namib. We were in the hills, and we saw the Nadir attack a convoy of wagons. I'll never forget it. The torture went on long into the night. We slipped away, but the screams followed us. They follow me still.'

'I lived in Gulgothir for a while,' said Senta. 'I have relatives there, and we used to ride to the hunt. One day, high summer it was, the hunting party spotted three Nadir boys, walking beside a stream. The huntmaster shouted something and the riders broke into a gallop, spearing two of the boys as they stood there. The third ran. He was chased and cut a score of times, not enough to bring him down, but enough to keep him running. Finally he fell to the ground, exhausted and, I would guess, dying. The huntsmen, Gothir nobles all, leapt from their horses and hacked him to pieces. Then they cut off his ears for trophies.'

'There is a point to this tale?' enquired Angel.

'Savagery breeds savagery,' said Senta.

That's today's sermon, is it?'

'By Heaven but you are in a foul mood, Angel. I think I'll leave you to enjoy it alone.'

Angel remained silent as Senta moved back into the cabin.

Soon they would be heading north. Into Nadir country. Angel's mouth felt dry and the flames of fear grew in his belly.