'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? Bela
sh! 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.
* * *
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.
Waylander II: In The Realm of the Wolf ds-5 Page 10