“It is important to know your enemy,” she answered him.
“Only with knowledge can you ensure victory.”
Ralis said nothing.
Waylander sat quietly on the rough-hewn platform, high in the oak, staring out to the west, over the rolling plains toward the distant towers of Kasyra. Some four miles to his left he could see the Corn Road, a ribbon of a trail leading from the Sentran Plain south toward Drenan. There were few wagons now, the corn having been gathered and stored or shipped to markets in Mashrapur or Ventria. He saw several horsemen on the road, all riding toward Kasyra and the surrounding villages.
A cool breeze rustled the leaves around him, and he settled back, his mind drifting through the libraries of memory, sifting, seeking. His early training as a soldier in the Sathuli Wars told him that a static enemy was one facing defeat. The forest and mountains of Skeln boasted many caves and hiding places, but a persistent enemy would find him, for a man had to hunt to eat, and in hunting he left tracks. No, the soldier he had been knew only one way to win—attack!
But how? And where? And against whom?
The Blood Money had been placed in the Guild. Even if he were to find the man who had ordered the kill and slay him, the hunt would go on.
The wind picked up, and Waylander pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his frame. The run had been hard, his aging muscles complaining at the severity of the exercise, his lungs on fire, his heartbeat a pounding drum. Stretching out his right leg, he rubbed at the still-burning muscles of his calf and thought of all he knew about the Guild.
Fifteen years earlier the Guild had approached Waylander, offering to broker his contracts. He had refused them, preferring to work alone. In those days the Guild had been a mysterious, shadowy organization, operating in secret. Its rules were simple. First, all killings were to be accomplished with blade, shaft, or knotted rope. Murder by poison or fire was not allowed; the Guild wished for no innocent victims to be slain. Second, all monies were paid direct to the Guild and a signed document was placed with the patriarch, giving reasons for the contract. Such reasons could not include matters of the heart or religious quarrels.
In theory a cuckolded husband could not hire an assassin to murder his wife, her lover, or both. In practice, of course, such niceties never applied. As long as the contractor declared his reasons as being business or political, no questions were asked. Under Karnak the trade had become if not morally acceptable at least more legitimate. Waylander smiled. By allowing the Guild to operate openly, the financially beleaguered Karnak had found yet another source of taxable income. And in times of war such income was vital to pay soldiers, armorers, merchants, shipbuilders, masons … the list was endless.
Waylander stood and stretched his aching back. How many would come against him? The Guild would have other contracts to meet. They could not afford to send all their fighters scouring the country for news of him. Seven? Ten? The best would not come first. They would sit back and watch while lesser men began the hunt, men like Kreeg.
And were they already there, hidden, waiting?
He thought of Miriel, and his stomach tightened. She was strong and lithe, skilled with all weapons. But she was young and had never fought warriors blade to blade.
Removing his cloak, Waylander rolled it and looped it over his shoulder, tying it to his knife belt. The cold wind bit into his naked chest, but he ignored it as he climbed down the tree. His eyes scanned the undergrowth, but there was nothing to be seen. Swiftly he leapt from the lowest branch, landing lightly on the moss-covered earth.
The first move would have to be left to the enemy. That fact galled him, but having accepted it, he pushed it from his mind. All he could do was prepare himself. You have fought men and beasts, demons and Joinings, he told himself. And you are still alive while your enemies are dust.
I was younger then, came a small voice from his heart.
Spinning on his heel, he swept a throwing blade from its forearm sheath and sent it flashing through the air to plunge home into the narrow trunk of a nearby elm.
Young or old, I am still Waylander.
Miriel watched the old man make his way slowly toward the northwest and the distant fortress of Dros Delnoch. His pack was high on his shoulders, his white hair and beard billowing in the breeze. He stopped at the top of a rise, turned, and waved. Then he was gone. Miriel wandered back through the trees, listening to the birdsong, enjoying the leaf-broken sunlight dappling the path. The mountains were beautiful in the autumn, leaves of burnished gold, the last fading blooms of summer, the mountainsides glowing green and purple, all seemingly created just for her pleasure.
Coming to the brow of a hill, she paused, her eyes scanning the trees and the paths wending down to the Sentran Plain. A figure moved into sight, a tall man wearing a cloak of green. The cold of a remembered winter touched her skin, making her shiver, her hand moving to the hilt of the short sword at her side. The green cloak identified him as the assassin Morak. Well, this was one killer who would not live to attack her father.
Miriel stepped into sight and stood waiting as the man slowly climbed toward her. As he approached, she studied his face: his broad, flat cheekbones and scarred and hairless brows, a nose flattened and broken, a harsh gash of a mouth. The chin was square and strong, the neck bulging with muscle.
He paused before her. “The path is narrow,” he said politely enough. “Would you be so kind as to move aside.”
“Not for the likes of you,” she hissed, surprised that her voice remained steady, her fear disguised.
“Is it customary in these parts to insult strangers, girl? Or is it that you rely on gallantry to protect you?”
“I need nothing to protect me,” she said, stepping back and drawing her sword.
“Nice blade,” he said. “Now put it away lest I take it from you and spank you for your impudence.”
Her eyes narrowed, anger replacing fear, and she smiled.
“Draw your sword and we’ll see who suffers,” she told him.
“I do not fight girls,” he replied. “I am seeking a man.”
“I know whom you seek and why. But to get to him you must first pass me. And that will not be easy with your entrails hanging to your ankles.” Suddenly she leapt forward, the point of her blade stabbing toward his belly. He swayed aside, his arm flashing up and across, the back of his hand cannoning against her cheek. Miriel stumbled and fell, then rolled to her feet, her face burning from the slap.
The man moved to the right, slipping the thong from his green cloak and laying the garment over a fallen tree. “Who taught you to lunge like that?” he asked. “A farmer, perhaps? Or a herdsman? That is not a hoe you are holding. The thrust should always be disguised and used after a riposte or counter.” He drew his sword and advanced on her. Miriel did not wait for his attack but moved in to meet him, thrusting again, this time at his face. He blocked the blow and spun on his heel, his shoulder thudding into her chest and hurling her from her feet.
She sprang up and rushed in, slashing the blade toward his neck. His sword swept up, blocking the blow, but this time she spun and leapt, her booted foot cracking against his chin. She expected him to fall, but he merely staggered, righted himself, and spit blood from his mouth.
“Good,” he said softly. “Very good. Swift and in perfect balance. Perhaps there is something to you, after all.”
“You’ll never know,” she told him, launching an attack of blistering speed, aiming cuts and thrusts to face and body. Each one he blocked and never once made the riposte. At last she fell back, confused and dismayed. She could not breach his defenses, but what was more galling was that he made no attempt to breach hers.
“Why will you not fight me?” she asked him.
“Why should I?”
“I mean to kill you.”
“Do you have a reason for this hostility?” he inquired, the ugly gash of a mouth breaking into a smile.
“I know you, Morak. I know why you
are here. That should be enough.”
“It would—” he started to say, but she attacked again, and this time he was not quite fast enough, her blade slicing past his face and cutting his earlobe. His fist lashed out and up, thundering against her chin. Half-stunned, Miriel lost her grip on her sword and fell to her knees. The newcomer’s blade touched her neck. “Enough of this nonsense,” he said, moving away from her and picking up his cloak.
Gathering her sword, she faced him again. “I will not let you pass,” she said grimly.
“You couldn’t stop me,” he told her, “but it was a game effort. Now where is Waylander?” She advanced again.
“Wait,” he said, sheathing his sword. “I am not Morak. You understand me? I am not from the Guild.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, her blade now resting on his throat.
“Then believe this: Had I wished to kill you, I would have. You know that is true.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Angel,” he answered, “and a long time ago I was a friend to your family.”
“You are here to help us?”
“I don’t fight other men’s battles, girl. I came to warn him. I see now it was unnecessary.”
Slowly she lowered her sword. “Why are they hunting him? He has harmed no one.”
He shrugged. “Not for many a year, I’ll grant you that, but he has many enemies. It is one of the drawbacks of an assassin’s life. Did he teach you to use a sword?”
“Yes.”
“He ought to be ashamed of himself. Swordfighting is heart and mind in perfect harmony,” he said sternly. “Did he not tell you that?”
“Yes, he did,” she snapped.
“Ah, but like most women you listen only when it suits you. Yes, I can see that. Well, can you cook?”
Holding back her temper, she gave him her sweetest smile. “I can. I can also embroider, knit, sew, and what else? Ah, yes …” Her fist cracked against his chin. Standing alongside the fallen tree, he had no time to move his feet and steady himself, and a second blow sent him sprawling across the trunk to land in a mud patch on the other side. “I almost forgot,” she said. “He taught me to fight with my fists.”
Angel pushed himself to his knees and slowly rose. “My first wife was like you,” he said, rubbing his chin. “A dreadful woman, soft as goose down on the outside, baked leather and iron inside. But I’ll say this, girl—he did a better job of teaching you to punch than he did to thrust. Can we have a truce now?”
Miriel chuckled. “Truce,” she agreed.
Angel rubbed his swollen jaw as he walked behind the tall mountain woman. A kick like an angry horse and a punch almost as powerful. He smiled ruefully, his eyes watching the way she moved, graceful yet economical. She fought well, he conceded, but with too much head and too little instinct. Even the punches she had thrown had been ill disguised, but Angel had allowed them to land, sensing that she had needed some outlet for her frustration at having been so easily defeated.
A proud woman. And attractive, he decided, somewhat to his surprise. Angel had always favored big-breasted women, buxom and comfortable, warm between the sheets. Miriel was a mite thin for his taste, and her legs, though long and beautifully proportioned, were just a little too muscular. Still, as the saying went, she was a woman to walk the mountains with.
He chuckled suddenly, and she turned. “Something is amusing you?” she asked, her expression frosty.
“Not at all, Miriel. I was just remembering the last time I walked these mountains. You and your sister would have been around eight, maybe nine. I was thinking that life goes by with bewildering speed.”
“I don’t remember you,” she said.
“I looked different then. This squashed nose was aquiline, and my brows boasted hair. It was long before the mailed gloves of other fistfighters cut and slashed at the skin. My mouth, too, was fuller. And I had long red hair that hung to my shoulders.”
She leaned in close, peering at him. “You were not called Angel then,” she announced.
“No. I was Caridris.”
“I remember now. You brought me a dress—a yellow dress—and a green one for Krylla. But you were …”
“Handsome? Yes, I was. And now I am ugly.”
“I did not mean …”
“No matter, girl. All beauty passes. I chose a rough occupation.”
“I don’t understand how any man would wish to pursue such a way of life. Causing pain, being hurt, risking death—and for what? So that a crowd of fat-bellied merchants can see blood flow.”
“I used to think there was more to it,” he said softly, “but now I will not argue with you. It was brutal and barbaric, and mostly I loved it.”
They walked on to the cabin. After he had eaten, Angel sat down by the dying fire and pulled off his boots. He glanced at the hearth. “A little early for fires, isn’t it?”
“We had a guest, an old man,” said Miriel, seating herself opposite him. “He feels the cold.”
“Old Ralis?” he inquired.
“Yes. You know him?”
“He’s been plying his trade between Drenan and Delnoch for years—decades. He used to make knives the like of which I’ve never seen since. Your father has several.”
“I’m sorry I struck you,” she said suddenly. “I don’t know why I did it.”
“I’ve been struck before,” he answered with a shrug. “And you were angry.”
“I am not usually so … short-tempered. But I think I am a little afraid.”
“That is a good way to be. I’ve always been careful around fearless men—or women. They have a tendency to get you killed. But take some advice, young Miriel. When the hunters come, don’t challenge them with the blade. Shoot them from a distance.”
“I thought I was good with a sword. My father always tells me I am better than he is.”
“In practice, maybe, but in combat I would doubt it. You think out your moves, and that robs you of speed. Swordplay requires subtle skills and a direct link between hand and mind. I’ll show you.” Leaning to his right, he lifted a long twig from the tinderbox and stood. “Stand opposite me,” he ordered her. Then, holding the stick between his index fingers, he said: “Put your hand over the stick and, when I release it, catch it. Can you do that?”
“Of course, it is—” As she was answering him, he opened his fingers. The twig dropped sharply. Miriel’s hand flashed down, her fingers closing on air, and the twig landed at her feet. “I wasn’t ready,” she argued.
“Then try again.”
Twice more she missed the falling twig. “What does it prove?” she snapped.
“Reaction time, Miriel. The hand should move as soon as the eye sees the twig fall, but yours doesn’t. You see the twig. You send a message to your hand. Then you move. By this time the twig is falling away from you.”
“How else can anyone catch it?” she asked him. “You have to tell your hand to move.”
He shook his head. “You will see.”
“Show me,” she demanded.
“Show her what?” asked Waylander from the doorway.
“She wants to learn to catch twigs,” said Angel, turning slowly.
“It’s been a long time, Caridris. How are you?” asked the mountain man, the small crossbow pointing at Angel’s heart.
“Not here looking for a kill, my friend. I don’t work for the Guild. I came to warn you.”
Waylander nodded. “I heard you retired from the arena. What do you do now?”
“I sold hunting weapons. I had a place in the market square, but it was sequestered against my debts.”
“Ten thousand gold pieces would buy it back for you,” said Waylander coldly.
“Indeed it would, five times over. But as I have already told you, I do not work for the Guild. And do not even think of calling me a liar!”
Waylander pulled the bolts clear of the weapon, then released the strings. Dropping the bow to the table, he turned back to the sca
rred fighter. “You are no liar,” he said. “But why would you warn me? We were never close.”
Angel shrugged. “I was thinking of Danyal. I didn’t want to see her widowed. Where is she?”
Waylander did not reply, but Angel saw the color fade from his face and a look of anguish that was swiftly masked. “You may stay the night,” said Waylander. “And I thank you for your warning.” With that he took up his crossbow and left the cabin.
“My mother died,” whispered Miriel. “Five years ago.” Angel sighed and sank back in his chair. “You knew her well?” she asked.
“Well enough to be a little in love with her. How did she die?”
“She was riding. The horse fell and rolled on her.”
“After all she’d been through … battles and wars …” He shook his head. “There’s no sense to such things, none at all. Unless it be that the gods have a grim sense of humor. Five years, you say. Gods! He must have adored her to stay alone this long.”
“He did. He still does, spending too much time by her grave, talking to her as if she could still hear him. He does that here sometimes.”
“I see it now,” Angel said softly.
“What do you see?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Miriel? The killers are gathering: assassins, hunters, stalkers of the night. He cannot kill them all; he knows that. So why is he still here?”
“You tell me.”
“He’s like the old stag hunted by wolves. It takes to the high ground, knowing it is finished, and then it turns and waits, facing the enemy for one last battle.”
“But he’s not like that stag. He’s not old! He’s not! And he’s not finished, either.”
“That’s not how he sees it. Danyal was what he lived for. Perhaps he thinks that in death they will be reunited; I don’t know. What I do know—and so does he—is that to stay here means death.”
“You are wrong,” said Miriel, but her words carried no conviction.
3
FLOATING ON A sea of pain, Ralis knew he was dying; his arms were tied behind him, the skin of his chest was seared and cut, his legs were broken. All his dignity had been stripped from him in the screams of anguish the knives and hot irons had torn from his soul. There was nothing of the man left save one small flickering spark of pride.
In the Realm of the Wolf Page 4