I can see the boil starting on your neck, you ignorant savage, thought Morak. And I can smell the stench from your armpits. Aloud he said: 'And what is the spirit of this land?'
'It is female,' answered Belash. 'Like a mother. She nourishes those who respond to her, giving them strength and pride. Like the old man you killed.'
'And she talks to you?'
'No, for I am the enemy of this land. But she lets me know she is there and watching me. And she does not hate me. But she hates you.'
'Why would that be true?' asked Morak, suddenly uncomfortable. 'Women have always liked me.'
'She reads your soul, Morak. And she knows it is full of dark light.'
'Superstition!' snapped Morak. 'There is no woman. There is no force in the world save that which is held in ten thousand sharp swords. Look at Karnak. He ordered the assassination of the great hero Egel, and now he rules in his place, revered, even loved. He is the force in the Drenai world. Does the lady love him?'
Belash shrugged. 'Karnak is a great man – for all his faults – and he fights for the land, so maybe she does. And no man truly knows whether Karnak ordered Egel's killing.'
I know, thought Morak, remembering the moment when he stood over the great man's bed and plunged the dagger into his right eye.
Oh yes, I know.
* * *
It was close to midnight when Waylander returned. Angel was sitting beside the fire, Miriel was asleep in the back room. Waylander lifted the lock-bar into place on the iron brackets of the door then undipped the quiver from his belt, laying it on the table beside his ebony crossbow. Angel glanced up. The only light in the room came from the flickering fire, and in its glow Waylander seemed an eldritch figure surrounded by dancing demon shadows.
Silently, Waylander lifted clear his black leather baldric, with its three throwing knives, then untied the two forearm sheaths, placing the weapons upon the table. Two more knives came from hidden scabbards in his knee-length moccasins. At last he walked to the fire and sat down opposite the former gladiator.
Angel sat back, his pale eyes watching the warrior, observing his tension.
'I see you fought Miriel,' said Waylander.
'Not for long.'
'No. How many times did you knock her down?'
'Twice.'
Waylander nodded. 'The tracks were not easy to read. Your footprints were deeper than hers, but they overlaid one another.'
'How did you know I knocked her down?'
'The ground was soft, and I found where her elbow struck the earth. You beat her easily.'
'I defeated thirty-seven opponents in the arena. You think a girl should best me?'
Waylander said nothing for a moment. Then: 'How good was she?'
Angel shrugged. 'She would survive against an unskilled swordsman, but the likes of Morak, or Senta? She'd be dead within seconds.'
'She's better than me,' said Waylander. 'And I would survive against them for longer than that.'
'She's better than you when you practise,' replied Angel. 'You and I both know the difference between that and the reality of combat. She is too tense. Danyal once told me of the test you set her. You recall?'
'How could I forget?'
'Well, were you to try it with Miriel she would fail. You know that, don't you?'
'Perhaps,' admitted Waylander. 'How can I help her?'
'You can't.'
'But you could.'
'Yes. But why would I?'
Waylander threw a fresh chunk of wood to the coals, remaining silent as the first yellow flames licked at the bark. His dark gaze swung to Angel. 'I am a rich man, Caridris. I will pay ten thousand in gold.'
'I notice you don't live in a palace,' remarked Angel.
'I choose to live here. I have merchants looking after my investments. I will give you a letter to one of them in Drenan. He will pay you.'
'Even after you are dead?'
'Even then.'
'I don't intend to fight for you,' said Angel. 'Understand? I will be a tutor to your daughter, but that is all.'
'I need no one to fight for me,' snapped Waylander. 'Not now. Not ever.'
Angel nodded. 'I accept your offer. I will stay and teach her, but only so long as I believe she is learning. When the day comes – as it will – when I can teach her no more, or she cannot learn, then I leave. Is that agreeable?'
'It is.' Waylander rose and moved to the rear wall. Angel watched him press his palm against a flat stone, then reach inside a hidden compartment. Waylander turned and tossed a heavy pouch across the room. Angel caught it, and heard the chink of metal within. 'There is a part-payment,' said Waylander.
'How much?'
'Fifty gold Raq.'
'I'd have undertaken the task for this alone. Why pay so much more?'
'You tell me?' countered Waylander.
'You set the price at the same level as the hunt-geld upon you. You are removing temptation from my path.'
"That is true, Caridris. But not the whole truth.'
'And what is the whole truth?'
'Danyal was fond of you,' replied Waylander, rising to his feet. 'And I wouldn't want to kill you. Now I'll bid you goodnight.'
* * *
Waylander found sleep elusive, but he lay still, eyes closed, resting his body. Tomorrow he would run again, building his strength and stamina, preparing for the day when the assassins would come.
He was pleased Angel had chosen to stay. He would be good for Miriel, and when the killers finally tracked him down he would ask the gladiator to take the girl to Drenan. Once there she would inherit all his wealth, choose a husband and enjoy a life free from peril.
Slowly he relaxed and faded into dreams.
Danyal was beside him. They were riding by a lakeside, and the sun was bright in a clear blue sky.
'I'll race you to the meadow,' she shouted, digging her heels into the grey mare's flanks.
'No!' he shouted, his panic growing. But she rode away. He saw the horse stumble and fall, watched as it rolled across Danyal, the pommel of the saddle crushing her chest. 'No!' he screamed again, waking, his body bathed in sweat.
All was silent. He shivered. His hands were trembling and he rose from the bed and poured himself a goblet of water. Together he and Danyal had crossed a war-torn land, enemies all around them. Werebeasts had hunted them, Nadir warriors had tracked them. But they had survived. Yet in peace-time, beside a still lake, Danyal had died.
Forcing back the memories he focused instead upon the dangers he faced, and how best to tackle them. Fear settled upon him. He knew of Morak. The man was a torturer who revelled in the pain of others – unhinged, perhaps even insane, yet he never failed. Belash was unknown to him, but he was Nadir, and that meant he would be a fearless fighter. A warrior race, the Nadir had little time for weaklings. Constantly at war the tribesmen fought one another with pitiless ferocity, and only the very strong survived to manhood.
Senta, Courail, Morak, Belash . . . how many more? And who had paid them? The last question he pushed aside. It didn't matter. Once you have killed the hunters you can find out, he told himself.
Once you have killed the hunters . . .
A great weariness of spirit settled upon him. Taking up his tinder-box he lifted a bronze lantern from the hook on the wall above his bed and struck a flame, holding it to the wick. A golden light flickered. Rehanging the lantern, Waylander sat down upon the bed and gazed at his hands.
Hands of death. The hands of the Slayer.
As a young soldier he had fought for the Drenai against Sathuli raiders, protecting the farmer and the settlers of the Sentran Plain. But he hadn't protected them well enough, for a small band of killers had crossed the mountains to raid and pillage. On the return journey they stopped at his farmhouse, raped and murdered his wife and killed his children.
On that day Dakeyras changed. The young soldier resigned his commission and set out in pursuit of the killers. Coming upon their camp he had slain two of th
em, the rest fleeing. But he tracked them and, one by one, hunted them down. Each man he caught he tortured, forcing information on the names and likely destinations of the remaining raiders. It took years, and on the endless journey the young officer named Dakeyras died, to be replaced by the empty killing-machine known as Waylander.
By then, death and suffering meant nothing to the silent hunter and, one night in Mashrapur, his money gone, he had been approached by a merchant seeking revenge on a business rival. For forty silver pieces Waylander undertook his first assassination. He did not try to justify his actions, not even to himself. The hunt was everything, and to find the killers he needed money. Cold and heartless he moved on, a man apart, feared, avoided, telling himself that when the quest was over he would become Dakeyras again.
But when the last of the raiders had died screaming, staked out across a campfire, Waylander knew Dakeyras was gone forever. And he had continued his bloody trade, the road to Hell carrying him forward until the day he killed the Drenai King.
The enormity of the deed, and its terrible consequences, haunted him still. The land had been plunged into war, with thousands slain, widowed, orphaned.
The golden lantern light flickered on the far wall and Waylander sighed. He had tried to redeem himself, but could a man ever earn forgiveness for such crimes? He doubted it. And even if the Source granted him absolution it would mean nothing. For he could not forgive himself. Maybe that's why Danyal died, he thought, not for the first time. Perhaps he was always to be burdened by sorrow.
Pouring himself a goblet of water he drained it and returned to his bed. The gentle priest Dardalion had guided him from the road to perdition, and Danyal had found the tiny spark of Dakeyras that remained, fanning it to life, bringing him back from the dead.
But now she too was gone. Only Miriel remained. Would he have to watch her die?
Miriel would fail the test. That's what Angel had said, and he was right. Dakeyras recalled the day he himself had tested Danyal. Deep in Nadir territory assassins had come upon him, and he had slain them. Danyal asked him how it was that he killed with such ease.
He walked away from her and stooped to lift a pebble. 'Catch this,' he said, flicking the stone towards her. Her hand snaked out and she caught the pebble deftly. 'That was easy, was it not?'
'Yes,' she admitted.
'Now if I had Krylla and Miriel here, and two men had knives at their throats, and you were told that if you missed the pebble they would die, would it still be easy to catch? The onset of fear makes the simplest of actions complex and difficult. I am what I am because, whatever the consequences, the pebble remains a pebble.'
'Can you teach me?'
'I don't have the time.' She had argued, and finally he said, 'What do you fear most at this moment?'
'I fear losing you.'
He moved away from her and lifted a second pebble. Clouds partly obscured the moonlight and she strained to see his hand. 'I am going to throw this to you,' he said. 'If you catch it, you stay and I train you. If you miss it you return to Skarta.'
'No, that's not fair! The light is poor.'
'Life is not fair, Danyal. If you do not agree, then I ride away alone.'
"Then I agree.'
Without another word he flicked the stone towards her –a bad throw, moving fast and to her left. Her hand flashed out and the pebble bounced against her palm. Even as it fell her fingers snaked around it, clutching it like a prize.
She laughed. 'Why so pleased?' he asked her.
'I won!'
'No, tell me what you did.'
'I conquered my fear.'
'No.'
'Well, what then? I don't understand.'
'You must if you wish to learn.'
Suddenly she smiled. 'I understand the mystery, Waylander.'
"Then tell me what you did.'
'I caught a pebble in the moonlight.'
Waylander sighed. The room was cold, but his memories were warm. Outside a wolf howled at the moon, a lonely sound, haunting and primal. And Waylander slept.
* * *
'You move with all the grace of a sick cow,' stormed Angel, as Miriel pushed herself to her knees, fighting to draw air into her tired lungs. Angry now she surged to her feet, the sword-blade lunging at Angel's belly. Sidestepping swiftly he parried the thrust, the flat of his left hand striking her just behind the ear. Miriel hit the ground on her face.
'No, no, no!' said Angel. 'Anger must be controlled. Rest now for a while.' He walked away from her and stopped at the well, hauling up the copper-bound bucket and splashing water to his face.
Miriel rose wearily, her spirits low. For months now she had believed her sword skills to be high, better than most men, her father had said. Now she was faced with the odious truth. A sick cow, indeed! Slowly she made her way to where Angel sat on the wall of the well. He was stripped to the waist now and she saw the host of scars on the ridged muscles of his chest and belly, on his thick forearms and his powerful shoulders.
'You have suffered many wounds,' she said.
'It shows how many skilful swordsmen there are,' he answered gruffly.
'Why are you angry?'
He was silent for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. 'In the city there are many clerks, administrators, organisers. Without them Drenan would cease to run. They are valued men. But place them in these mountains and they would starve to death while surrounded by game and edible roots. You understand? The degree of a man's skill is relative to his surroundings, or the challenges he faces. Against most men you would be considered highly talented. You are fast and you have courage. But the men hunting your father are warriors. Belash would kill you in two. . . three . . . heartbeats. Morak would not take much longer. Senta and Courail both learned their skills in the arena.'
'Can I be as good?'
He shook his head. 'I don't think so. Much as I hate to admit it I think there is an evil in men like them . . . men like me. We are natural killers, and though we may not talk of our feelings yet each of us knows the bitter truth. We enjoy fighting. We enjoy killing. I don't think you will. Indeed, I don't think you should.'
'You think my father enjoys killing?'
'He's a mystery,' admitted Angel. 'I remember talking to Danyal about that. She said he was two men, the one kind, the other a demon. There are gates in the soul which should never be unlocked. He found a key.'
'He has always been kind to me, and to my sister.'
'I don't doubt that. What happened to Krylla?'
'She married and moved away.'
'When I knew you as children you had a … power, a Talent. You and she could talk to each other without speaking. You could see things far off. Can you still do it?'
'No,' she said, turning away.
'When did it fail?'
'I don't want to talk about it. Are you ready to teach me?'
'Of course,' he answered. 'That is why I am being paid. Stand still.' Rising he moved to stand before her, his hands running over her shoulders and arms, fingers pressing into the muscles, tracing the lines of her biceps and triceps, up over the deltoids and the joints of her shoulders.
She felt herself reddening. 'What are you doing?' she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
'Your arms are not strong enough,' he told her, 'especially at the back here,' he added, squeezing her triceps. 'All your power is in your legs and lungs. And your balance is wrong. Give me your hand.' Even as he spoke he took hold of her wrist, lifting her arm and staring down at her fingers. 'Long,' he said, almost to himself. 'Too long. It means you cannot get a good grip on the sword-hilt. We'll cut more leather for it tonight. Follow!'
He strode to the edge of the tree line and walked from trunk to trunk, examining the branches. At last satisfied he stood beneath a spreading elm, a thick limb sprouting just out of reach above him. 'I want you to jump and catch hold of that branch and then slowly pull yourself up until your chin touches the bark. Then – and still slowly, mind – lower your
self until the arms are almost straight. Understand?'
'Of course I understand,' she snapped. 'It was hardly the most complex of instructions.'
'Then do it!'
'How many times?'
'As many as you can. I want to see the limits of your strength.'
She leapt upwards, her fingers hooking over the branch, and hung for a moment adjusting her grip. Then slowly she hauled herself up.
'How does it feel?' he asked.
'Easy,' she answered, lowering herself.
'Again!'
At three she began to feel her biceps stretching. At five they began to burn. At seven her arms trembled and gave way and she dropped to the ground. 'Pathetic,' said Angel. 'But it is a start. Tomorrow morning you will begin your day with seven, eight if you can. Then you can run. When you return you will do another seven. In three days I will expect you to complete twelve.'
'How many could you do?'
'At least a hundred,' he replied. 'Follow!'
'Will you stop saying follow! It makes me feel like a dog.'
But he was moving even as she spoke and Miriel followed him back across the clearing. 'Wait here,' he ordered, then walked to the side of the cabin where the winter wood was stored. Selecting two large chunks he carried them back to where Miriel was waiting and laid them on the ground twenty feet apart. 'I want you to run from one to the other,' he said.
'You want me to run twenty feet? Why?'
His hand snaked out, rapping against her cheek. 'Stop asking stupid questions and do as you are told.'
'You whoreson!' she stormed. 'Touch me again and I'll kill you!'
He laughed and shook his head. 'Not yet. But do as I tell you – and maybe you'll have the skill to do just that. Now move to the first piece of wood.'
Still seething she walked to the first chunk, his voice following her. 'Run to the second and stoop down, touching the wood with your right hand. Turn instantly and run back to the first, touching it with your left hand. Am I going too fast for you?'
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