In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  Waylander moved slowly down the slope, halting some ten feet from the injured animal. From there he could see that its wounds were many and that its gray flanks carried other, older scars from claw and fang and whip. The hound gazed at him through baleful eyes, but its strength was gone, and when Waylander rose and moved to its side, it managed only a weary growl.

  “You can stop that,” said Waylander, gently stroking the hound’s huge gray head. From the gashes and cuts he could see that the dog had attacked the bear at least three times. There was blood seeping from four parallel rips in the hide, the skin peeled back, exposing muscle and bone. Judging by the size of the claw marks, the bear must have been large indeed. Sheathing his knife, Waylander examined the injuries. There were muscle tears but no broken bones that he could find.

  Another low growl came from the hound as Waylander eased a flap of skin back into place, and the beast struggled to turn its head, baring its fangs. “Lie still,” ordered the man. “We’ll see what can be done.” From a leather pouch at his belt Waylander removed a long needle and a thin length of twine, stitching the largest of the wounds to stem the flow of blood. At last satisfied, he moved to the head, stroking the beast’s ears. “You must try to rise,” he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. “I need to see your left side. Come on. Up, boy!” The hound struggled but sank back to the earth, tongue lolling from its gaping jaws.

  Waylander rose and moved outside to a fallen tree, cutting from it a long strip of bark, which he twisted into a shallow bowl. Nearby was a slender stream, and he filled the bowl, carrying it back to the stricken hound and holding it beneath the creature’s mouth. The hound’s nostrils quivered, and once more it struggled to rise. Waylander pushed his hands beneath the huge shoulders, helping it to its feet. The head drooped, and the tongue slowly lapped at the water. “Good,” said Waylander. “Good. Finish it now.” There were four more jagged cuts on the hound’s left side, but they were matted with dirt and clay, which had at least stopped the flow of blood.

  Having finished drinking, the exhausted hound sank back to the earth, its great head resting on its huge paws. Waylander sat beside the beast, which gazed up at him unblinking, and noted the many scars, old and new, that crisscrossed its flanks and head. The right ear had been ripped away some years before, and there was a long, thick scar that ran from the hound’s shoulder to the first joint of its right leg.

  “By the gods, you’re a fighter, boy,” said the man admiringly. “And you’re no youngster. What would you be? Eight? Ten? Well, those cowards made a mistake. You’re not going to die, are you? You won’t give them the satisfaction, will you?”

  Reaching into his shirt, the man pulled clear a wedge of smoked meat wrapped in linen. “This was to have lasted me another two days,” said Waylander, “but I can live without a meal for a while. I’m not sure that you can.” Unfolding the linen, he took his knife and cut a section of meat, which he laid before the hound. The dog merely sniffed at it and then returned its gaze to the man. “Eat, idiot,” said Waylander, lifting the meat and touching it to the hound’s long canines. Its tongue snaked out, and the man watched as the dog chewed wearily. Slowly, as the hours passed, he fed the rest of the meat to the injured hound. Then, with the light fading, he took a last look at the wounds. They were mostly sealed, though a thin trickle of blood was seeping from the deepest cut on the rear right flank.

  “That’s all I can do for you, boy,” said Waylander, rising.

  “Good luck to you. Were I you, I wouldn’t stay here too long. Those oafs may decide to come back for some sport, and they could bring a bowman.” Without a backward glance the man left the hound and made his way back into the forest.

  The moon was high when he found a place to camp, a sheltered cave where his fire could not be seen, and he sat long into the night, wrapped in his cloak. He had done what he could for the dog, but there was little chance it would survive. It would have to scavenge for food, and in its wounded state it would not be able to move far. If it had been stronger, he would have encouraged it to follow him, taken it to the cabin. Miriel would have loved it. He recalled the orphaned fox cub she had mothered as a child. What was the name she had given it? Blue. That was it. It had stayed near the cabin for almost a year. Then, one day, it had just loped off and never returned. Miriel had been twelve then. It had been just before …

  The memory of the horse falling, rolling, the terrible scream …

  Waylander closed his eyes, forcing the memories back, concentrating on a picture of little Miriel feeding the fox cub with bread dipped in warm milk.

  Just before dawn he heard something moving at the cave entrance. Rolling to his feet, he drew his sword. The gray wolfhound limped inside and settled down at his feet. Waylander chuckled and sheathed his sword. Squatting down, he reached out to stroke the beast. The dog gave a low, warning growl and bared its fangs.

  “By heaven, I like you, dog,” said Waylander. “You remind me of me.”

  Miriel watched the ugly warrior as he trained, his powerful hands clasping the branch, his upper body bathed in sweat. “You see,” he said, hauling himself smoothly up, “the movement must be fluid, feet together. Touch your chin to the wood and then lower—not too fast, mind. No strain. Let your mind relax.” His voice was even, and there was no hint of effort in his actions.

  He was more powerfully built than her father, his shoulders and arms ridged with massive bands of muscle, and her eyes caught a trickle of sweat flowing over his shoulder and down his side like a tiny stream over the hills and valleys of his body. Sunlight gleamed on his bronzed skin, and the white scars shone like ivory on his chest and arms. Her gaze moved to his face: the smashed nose, the gashed deformed lips, the swollen damaged ears. The contrast was chilling. His body was so beautiful.

  But his face …

  He dropped to the ground and grinned. “Was a time I could have completed a hundred. But fifty’s not bad. What are you thinking?”

  Caught off guard, she blushed. “You make it look so simple,” she said, averting her gaze.

  In the three days she had been practicing she had once struggled to fifteen. He shrugged. “You are getting there, Miriel. You just need more work.” Moving past her, he picked up a towel and draped it over his neck.

  “What happened to your wife?” she asked suddenly.

  “Which one?”

  “How many have you had?”

  “Three.”

  “That’s a little excessive, isn’t it?” she snapped.

  He chuckled. “Seems that way now,” he agreed.

  “What about the first one?”

  He sighed. “Hellcat. By heaven, she could fight. Half demon—and that was the gentle half. The gods alone know where the other half came from. She swore her father was Drenai; I didn’t believe it for a moment. Had some good times, though. Rare good times.”

  “Did she die?”

  He nodded. “Plague. She fought it, mind. All the swellings had gone, the discoloration. She’d even begun to get her hair back. Then she caught a chill and had no strength left to battle it. Died in the night. Peaceful.”

  “Were you a gladiator then?”

  “No. I was a merchant’s bookkeeper.”

  “I don’t believe it! How did you meet her?”

  “She danced in a tavern. One night someone reached up and grabbed her leg. She kicked him in the mouth. He drew a dagger. I stopped him.”

  “Just like that? A bookkeeper?”

  “Do not make the mistake of judging a man’s physical courage or his skills by the work he is forced to do,” he said. “I knew a doctor once who could put an arrow through a gold ring at forty paces and a street cleaner in Drenan who once held off twenty Sathuli warriors, killing three, before he carried his injured officer back to camp. Judge a man by his actions, not his occupation. Now, let’s get back to work.”

  “What about the other wives?”

  “Don’t want to work yet, eh? All right. Let’s see, what can I
tell you about Kalla? She was another dancer. Worked in the south quarter in Drenan. Ventrian girl. Sweet, but she had a weakness. Loved men. Couldn’t say no. That marriage lasted eight months. She ran off with a merchant from Mashrapur. And lastly there was Voria. Older than me, but not much. I was a young fighter then, and she was the patron of the sixth arena. She took a fancy to me, showered me with gifts. Married her for her money, have to admit it, but I learned to love her in my own way.”

  “And she died, too?”

  “No. She caught me with two serving maids and threw me out. Made my life hell. For three years she kept trying to have me killed in the arena. Spiked my special wine with a sleeping draft once. I was almost dead on my feet when I went out to fight. Then she hired two assassins. I had to leave Drenan for a while. I fought in Vagria, Gothir, even Mashrapur.”

  “Does she still hate you?”

  He shook his head. “She married a young nobleman, then died suddenly, leaving him all her money. Fell from a window—accident, they said, but I spoke to a servant who said he’d heard her having a terrible row with her husband just before she fell.”

  “You think he killed her?”

  “Sure of it.”

  “And now he lives fat off her wealth?”

  “No. Curiously, he fell from the same window two nights later. His neck was broken in the fall.”

  “And you wouldn’t have had anything to do with that?”

  “Me? How could you think it? And now let’s work, if you please. Swords, I think.”

  But just as Miriel was drawing her sword, she saw movement in the undergrowth to the north of the cabin. At first she thought it was her father returning, for the first man who came into sight was dressed all in black. But he carried a longbow and was darkly bearded. He was followed by a shorter, stockier man in a tan leather jerkin.

  “Follow my lead,” whispered Angel. “And say nothing, even if they speak to you.”

  He turned and waited as the man approached. “Good day,” said the black-garbed bowman.

  “And to you, friend. Hunting?”

  “Aye. Thought we might find a stag.”

  “Plenty south of here. Boar, too, if you like the meat.”

  “Nice cabin. Yours?”

  “Yes,” said Angel.

  The man nodded. “You’d be Dakeyras, then?”

  “That’s right. This is my daughter, Miriel. How do you know of us?”

  “Met some people in the mountains. They said you had a cabin here.”

  “So you came to visit?”

  “Not exactly. Thought you might be an old friend of mine. His name was Dakeyras, but he was taller than you and darker.”

  “It’s not an uncommon name,” said Angel. “If you kill a stag, I’ll buy some of the meat. Game will be pretty scarce once winter comes.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” said the bowman.

  The two men walked off toward the south. Angel watched them until they were out of sight.

  “Assassins?” asked Miriel.

  “Trackers, huntsmen. They’ll be in the employ of Senta or Morak.”

  “You took a risk claiming to be Dakeyras.”

  “Not really,” he said. “They were likely to have been given a description of Waylander, and I certainly don’t fit it.”

  “But what if they hadn’t? What if they had merely attacked you?”

  “I’d have killed them. Now, let’s work.”

  Kesa Khan stared gloomily into the green flames, his jet-black eyes unblinking. He hawked and spit into the fire, his expression impassive, his heart beating wildly.

  “What do you see, shaman?” asked Anshi Chen. The wizened shaman waved a hand, demanding silence, and the stocky chieftain obeyed. Three hundred swords he could call upon, but he feared the little man as he feared nothing else in life, not even the prospect of death.

  Kesa Khan had seen all he needed to, but still his slanted eyes remained locked on the dancing flames. Reaching a skeletal hand into one of the four clay pots before him, he took a pinch of yellow powder and flicked it into the fire. The blaze flared up orange and red, shadows leaping to the cave wall and cavorting like demons. Anshi Chen cleared his throat and sniffed loudly, his dark Nadir eyes flickering nervously to the left and right.

  Kesa gave a thin smile. “I have seen the dragon in the dream,” he said, his voice a sibilant whisper.

  The color fled from Anshi’s face. “Is it over, then? We are all dead?”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Kesa, enjoying the fear he felt emanating from the warrior.

  “What can we do?”

  “What the Nadir have always done. We will fight.”

  “The Gothir have thousands of warriors, fine armor, swords of steel that do not dull. Archers. Lancers. How can we fight them?”

  Kesa shook his head. “I am not the warlord of the Wolves; you are.”

  “But you can read the hearts of our enemies! You could send demons to rip open their bellies. Or is Zhu Chao mightier than Kesa Khan?” For a moment there was silence, then Anshi Chen leaned forward, bowing his head “Forgive me, Kesa. I spoke in anger.”

  The shaman nodded sagely. “I know. But there is truth in your fear. Zhu Chao is mightier. He can call upon the blood of many souls. The emperor has a thousand slaves, and many hearts have been laid upon the altar of the Dark God. And what do I have?” The little man twisted his body and pointed at the three dead chickens. He gave a dry laugh. “I command few demons with those, Anshi Chen.”

  “We could raid the Green Monkeys, steal some children,” offered Anshi.

  “No! I will not sacrifice Nadir young.”

  “But they are the enemy.”

  “This day they are the enemy, but one day all Nadir will unite—this is written. This is the message Zhu Chao has carried to the emperor. This is why the dragon is in the dream.”

  “You cannot help us, then?”

  “Do not be a fool, Anshi Chen. I am helping you now! Soon the Gothir will come against us. We must prepare for that day. Our winter camp must be close to the Mountains of the Moon, and we must be ready to flee there.”

  “The mountains?” whispered Anshi. “But the demons …”

  “It is that or die. Your wives and your children and the children of your children.”

  “Why not flee south? We could ride hundreds of leagues from Gulgothir. We could merge with other tribes. How would they find us?”

  “Zhu Chao would find you,” said Kesa. “Be strong, warlord. From one among us will come the leader the Nadir have longed for. Can you understand that? The Uniter! He will end Gothir rule. He will give us the world.”

  “I will live to see this?”

  Kesa shook his head. “But neither will I,” he told the chieftain.

  “It will be as you say,” pledged Anshi. “We will move our camp.”

  “And send for Belash.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “South of the new Drenai fortress, in the mountains they call Skeln. Send Shia to bring him.”

  “Belash has no love for me, shaman. You know this.”

  “I know many things, Anshi. I know that in the coming days we will rely on your steady judgment and your calm skills. You are known and respected as the Wily Fox. But I know we will need the power of Belash, the White Tiger in the Night. And he will bring another: he will give us the Dragon Shadow.”

  Ekodas paused outside the abbot’s study, composing his thoughts. He loved life at the temple, its calm and camaraderie, the hours of study and meditation, even the physical exercises, running, archery, and sword skills. In every way he felt a part of the Thirty.

  Bar one.

  He tapped at the door and then pushed the latch. The room was lit by the golden light of three glass-sided lanterns, and he saw Dardalion sitting at his desk, poring over a goatskin map. The abbot looked up. In this gentle light he seemed younger, the silver highlights in his hair gleaming gold.

  “Welcome, my boy. Come in and sit.” Ekod
as bowed, then strode to a chair. “Shall we share thoughts, or would you like to speak out loud?” asked Dardalion.

  “To speak, sir.”

  “Very well. Vishna and Magnic tell me you are still troubled.”

  “I am not troubled, Father. I know what I know.”

  “You do not see this as arrogance?”

  “No. My beliefs are only those you enjoyed before your adventures with the killer Waylander. Were you wrong then?”

  “I do not believe that I was,” replied Dardalion. “But then, I no longer believe that there is only one road to the Source. Egel was a man of vision and a believer. Three times a day he prayed for guidance. Yet he was also a soldier, and through him—aye, and Karnak—the lands of the Drenai were saved from the foe. He is dead now. Do you think the Source refused to take his soul to paradise?”

  “I do not know the answer to that question,” said the young man, “but what I do know is that I have been taught, by you and others, that love is the greatest gift of the Source. Love for all life, for all his creation. Now you are saying that you expect me to lift a sword and take life. That cannot be right.”

  Dardalion leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Do you accept that the Source created the lion?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the deer?”

  “Yes, and the lion slays the deer. I know this. I do not understand it, but I accept it.”

  “I feel the need of flight,” said Dardalion. “Join me.”

  The abbot closed his eyes. Ekodas settled himself more comfortably in the chair, resting his arms on the padded wings, then took a deep breath. The release of spirit seemed effortless to Dardalion, but Ekodas found it extraordinarily difficult, as if his soul had many hooks into the flesh. He followed the lessons he had learned for the last ten years, repeating the mantras, cleansing the mind.

  The dove in the temple, the opening door, the circle of gold on the field of blue, the spreading of wings in a gilded cage, the loosing of chains on the temple floor.