In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  He had told them nothing. Cold water drenched him, easing the pain of the burns, and he opened his one remaining eye. Morak knelt before him, an easy smile on his handsome face.

  “I can free you from this pain, old man,” he said. Ralis said nothing. “What is he to you? A son? A nephew? Why do you suffer this for him? You have walked these mountains for what … fifty, sixty years? He’s here, and you know where he is. We will find him anyway, eventually.”

  “He … will … kill you … all,” whispered Ralis.

  Morak laughed, the others following his lead. Ralis smelled the burning of his flesh moments before the pain seared into his skull. But his throat was hoarse and bleeding from screaming, and he could only utter a short, broken groan.

  And suddenly, wonderfully, the pain passed and Ralis heard a voice calling to him.

  He rose from his bonds and flew toward the voice. “I did not tell them, Father,” he shouted triumphantly. “I did not tell them!”

  “Old fool,” said Morak as he stared at the corpse sagging against the ropes. “Let’s go!”

  “Tough old man,” put in Belash as they left the glade. Morak rounded on the stocky Nadir tribesman.

  “He made us waste half a day, and for what? Had he told us at the start, he would have walked off with ten, maybe twenty gold pieces. Now he’s dead meat for the foxes and the carrion birds. Yes, he was tough. But he was also stupid.”

  Belash’s jet-black eyes stared up into Morak’s face. “He died with honor,” muttered the Nadir. “And great will be his welcome in the Hall of Heroes.”

  Morak’s laughter welled out. “The Hall of Heroes, eh? They must be getting short of men if they need to rely on elderly tinkers. What stories will he tell around the great table? How I sold a knife for twice its worth or how I mended a broken cook pot? I can see there’ll be some merry evenings ahead for all of them.”

  “Most men mock what they can never aspire to,” said Belash, striding on ahead, his hand on his sword hilt.

  The words cut through Morak’s good humor, and his hatred of the little Nadir welled anew. The Ventrian swung to face the nine men who followed him. “Kreeg came to these mountains because he had information that Waylander was here. We’ll split up and quarter the area. In three days we’ll meet at the foot of that peak to the north, where the stream forks. Baris, you go into Kasyra. Ask about Kreeg, who he stayed with, where he drank. Find out where he got his information.”

  “Why me?” asked the tall, sandy-haired young man. “And what happens if you find him while I’m gone? Do I still get a share?”

  “We all get a share,” promised Morak. “If we find him and kill him before you get back, I will see that the gold is held for you in Drenan. Can I be fairer than that?”

  The man seemed unconvinced, but he nodded and walked away. Morak cast his eyes over the remaining eight men. All were woodsmen and proven warriors, men he had used before, tough and unhindered by morals. He despised them all but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. No man needed to be wakened by a saw-edged blade rasping across his jugular. But Belash was the only one he hated. The tribesman was fearless and a superb killer with knife or bow. He was worth ten men on a hunt such as this. One day, though, Morak thought with grim relish, one day I will kill you. I will slide a blade into that flat belly and rip out your entrails.

  Organizing the men in pairs, he issued his instructions. “If you come upon any dwellings, ask about a tall man and a young daughter. He may not be using the name Dakeyras, so seek out any widower who fits the description. And if you find him, make no move. Wait until we are all together. You understand?”

  The men nodded solemnly, then departed.

  Ten thousand Raq in gold was waiting for the man who killed Waylander, but the money meant little to Morak. He had ten times that amount hidden away with merchants in Mashrapur and Ventria. What mattered was the hunt and the kill—to be the man who slew a legend.

  He felt the sharp rise of anticipated pleasure as he considered all that he might do to fill Waylander’s last hours with exquisite pain. There was the girl, of course. He could rape and kill her before Waylander’s eyes. Or torture her. Or give her to the men to use and abuse. Be calm, he told himself. Let the anticipation build. First you have to find him.

  Swinging his leaf-green cloak about his shoulders, he walked off in pursuit of Belash. The Nadir had made camp in a sheltered hollow and was kneeling on his blanket, hands clasped in prayer, several old finger bones, yellowed and porous, lying before him. Morak sat down on the other side of the fire. What a disgusting practice, he thought, carrying the bones of your father in a bag. Barbarians! Who would ever understand them? Belash finished his prayer and returned the bones to the pouch at his side.

  “Your father have anything interesting to tell you?” asked Morak, his green eyes alight with amusement.

  Belash shook his head. “I do not speak with my father,” he said. “He is gone. I speak to the Mountains of the Moon.”

  “Ah, yes, the mountains. Do they know where Waylander dwells?”

  “They know only where each Nadir warrior rests.”

  “Lucky them,” observed Morak.

  “There are some matters you should not mock,” warned Belash. “The mountains house the souls of all Nadir, past and future. And through them, if I am valiant, I will find the home of the man who killed my father. I shall bury my father’s bones in that man’s grave, resting on his chest. And he will serve my father for all time.”

  “Interesting thought,” said Morak, keeping his voice neutral.

  “You kol-isha think you know everything. You think the world was created for your pleasure, but you do not understand the land. You, you sit there and you breathe air and feel the cold earth beneath you, and you notice nothing. And why? Because you live your lives in cities of stone, building walls to keep at bay the spirit of the land. You see nothing. You hear nothing. You feel nothing.”

  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 had 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, and Miriel was asleep in the back room. Waylander lifted the lock bar into place on the iron brackets of the door, then unclipped 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 on 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 practice,” 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 it is 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 good night.”

  Waylander found sleep elusive, but he lay still, eyes closed, resting his body. The next day he would run again, building his strength and stamina, preparing for the day when the assassins would come.

  He was pleased that 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 gray 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, and Nadir warriors had tracked them. But they had survived. Yet in peacetime, beside a still lake, Danyal had died.

  Forcing back the memories, he focused instead on the dangers he faced and how best to tackle them. Fear settled upon him. He knew of Morak. The man was a torturer who reveled 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 did not 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 tinderbox, he lifted a bronze lantern from the hook on the wall above his head and struck a flame, holding it to the wick. A golden light flickered. Rehanging the lantern, Waylander sat down on 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 farmers and settlers of the Sentran Plain. But he had not protected them well enough, for a small band of killers had crossed the mountains to raid and pillage. On the return journey they had stopped at his farmhouse, raped and murdered his wife, and killed his children.

  On that day Dakeyras had changed. The young soldier had resigned his commission and set out in pursuit of the killers. Coming upon their camp, he had slain two of them, the rest fleeing. But he had tracked them and, one by one, hunted them down. Each man he had caught he had tortured, forcing information about the names and likely destinations of the remaining raiders. It had taken years, and on the endless journey the young officer named Dakeyras had died, to be replaced by the empty killing machine known as Waylander.

  By then death and suffering had 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 had undertaken his first assassination. He had not tried to justify his actions, not even to himself. The hunt was everything, and to find the killers he had needed money. Cold and heartless, he had 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 had known that Dakeyras was gone forever. And he had continued his bloody trade, the road to hell carrying him forward until the day he had 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 was 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 sh
e, too, was gone. Only Miriel remained. Would he have to watch her die?

  Miriel would fail the test. That was what Angel had said, and he had been 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 had asked him how it was that he killed with such ease.

  He had walked away from her and stooped to lift a pebble. “Catch this,” he had said, flicking the stone toward her. Her hand had snaked out, and she had caught the pebble deftly. “That was easy, was it not?”

  “Yes,” she had 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 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 had said, “What do you fear most at this moment?”

  “I fear losing you.”

  He had moved away from her and lifted a second pebble. Clouds had partly obscured the moonlight, and she had strained to see his hand. “I am going to throw this to you,” he had 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 had flicked the stone toward her—a bad throw, moving fast and to her left. Her hand had flashed out, and the pebble had bounced against her palm. Even as it had fallen, her fingers had snaked around it, clutching it like a prize. She had laughed. “Why so pleased?” he asked her.

  “I won!”

  “No, tell me what you did.”

  “I conquered my fear.”