In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “Here, Scar!” shouted Waylander. For a moment the dog continued to rip and tear at die first Sathuli, but when Waylander called again, it released its grip and backed away. Unhooking the small crossbow from his belt, Waylander loaded it and waited. The man with the injured arm was lying on the brink of the precipice, breathing hoarsely. The other warrior was dead.

  “Who is leader here?” Waylander called in halting Sathuli.

  “Jitsan,” came the reply. “And I speak your tongue better than you do mine.”

  “Do you like to wager?”

  “On what?”

  “On how long your friend there lives if you do not come for him and bind his wounds.”

  “Speak plainly, Drenai!”

  “I am passing through. I am no danger to the Sathuli. Nor am I a soldier. Give me your word the hunt will cease and I will leave here now. You can rescue your friend. If not, I wait We fight. He dies.”

  “If you wait, you die,” shouted Jitsan.

  “Even so,” answered Waylander.

  The injured man groaned and tried to roll himself from the ledge to certain death on the rocks below. It was a brave move, and Waylander found himself admiring the warrior. Jitsan called out to him in Sathuli, and the man ceased his struggle.

  “Very well, Drenai, you have my word.” Jitsan stepped into sight, his sword sheathed.

  Waylander flicked the bolts from the crossbow and loosed the strings. “Let’s go, dog,” he said, and leapt to the scree, sliding down the slope on his haunches. Scar followed him instantly, tumbling and rolling past his master.

  But Waylander had misjudged the speed of the descent and lost his grip on the crossbow as he struck a hidden rock that catapulted him into the air, spinning and cartwheeling. Relaxing his muscles, he rolled himself into a ball and prayed he would not strike a tree or boulder.

  At last the dizzying fall slowed, and he came to a stop in a deep drift of snow. His body was bruised and aching, and two of his knives had fallen from their sheaths. Curiously, his sword was still in its scabbard. He sat up. His head was spinning, and he felt a rush of nausea. After it had passed he pushed himself to his knees. As well as the loss of the two knives, his crossbow quiver was empty, his leggings were torn, and his right thigh was gashed and bleeding.

  To his right lay the gelding, its neck broken in the fall. Waylander took a long, deep breath, his fingers probing at his bruised ribs. Nothing seemed broken. Scar padded over to him, licking his face. The stitches on the dog’s side had opened, and a thin trickle of blood was oozing from the wound.

  “Well, we made it, boy,” said Waylander. Slowly and with great care he stood. Several of his crossbow bolts and one of his knives lay nearby, close to the dead gelding. Gathering the weapons, he searched the snow for his knife but could not find it. Scar ran back up the slope and returned with the crossbow in his jaws.

  A second search left Waylander with twelve bolts and one knife recovered. The gash in his leg was not deep, requiring no stitches, but he bound the wound with a bandage taken from his saddlebag and then sat on a jutting rock and shared some dried meat with the hound.

  High above him he saw the signal smoke. Reaching down, he stroked Scar’s huge head. “You just can’t trust the Sathuli,” he said. The hound twisted its head and licked the man’s hand.

  Waylander stood and surveyed the valley. The snow was deep there, but the way to Senac Pass lay open.

  Lifting the food sack from the dead horse, he set off toward the north.

  Slowly the six hundred black-cloaked warriors filed into the huge hall, forming twenty ranks before the dais on which stood Zhu Chao and his six captains. Red lanterns glowed with crimson light, and shadows flickered across the great curving beams of the high ceiling.

  All was silent. Zhu Chao spread wide his arms, his caped gown arching down from his shoulders like the wings of a demon. “The day is here, comrades!” he shouted. “Tomorrow the Ventrians attack Purdol and the pass at Skeln. Gothir troops will then march on the Sentran Plain. And five thousand soldiers will obliterate the Nadir Wolves, bringing us the treasures of Kar-Barzac.

  “Within the month all three great nations will be ruled by the Brotherhood. And we will have the power our strength and our faith deserve.

  “The days of blood are here! The days when, for us, the only law will be to do as we will, wherever we choose.” A thunderous roar rose up from the ranks, but he quelled it with a swift wave of his hand. “We are talking about power, comrades. The Elder races did not understand the power they held. The oceans drank their cities, and their culture is all but lost to us.

  “But there is one great center of their might, named in all the grimoires. In the Mountains of the Moon lies the citadel of Kar-Barzac. The arcane strength of the Elders still flows there, and with it we will find not only the instruments to maintain our rule but the secret of immortality. Win this war and we will live forever, our dreams made true, our lusts sated, our desires fulfilled.” This time he let the cheering mount and stood with arms folded, drinking in the adulation. Gradually the sound died away. Zhu Chao spoke again.

  “To those who are chosen to ride against the Wolves I say this: kill them all and their whores and their brats. Leave nothing alive. Burn their bodies and grind their bones to powder. Consign their dreams to the ashes of history!”

  As the renewed cheering died down, he strode from the dais, exiting the hall through a small side door. Followed by his captains, he made his way to a suite of rooms in the western wing of the palace. There he stretched out on a couch and bade his officers sit around him.

  “The plans are all set?” he asked the first of his officers, Innicas, a wide-shouldered albino in his midforties with a forked white beard and a jagged scar across his brow. His long hair was braided, and his pink eyes, unblinking, shone with a cold light.

  “Yes, lord. Galen will see Karnak delivered to us. He has convinced him to meet with the Sathuli chieftain. He will be captured and delivered alive to Gulgothir. But tell me, lord, why do we need him? Why not just slit his throat and be done with it?”

  Zhu Chao smiled. “Men like Karnak are rare indeed. They have power, deep elemental strength. He will be a worthy gift to Shemak, as will the emperor. Two lords beneath the sacrificial knife. When has our master known such a sacrifice? And I shall enjoy watching both men beg for their lives.”

  “And the Source priests?” inquired a second officer, a slim man with thinning shoulder-length gray hair.

  “Dardalion and his comical troop?” Zhu Chao gave a dry laugh. “Tonight, Casta. Use sixty men. Destroy their souls as they sleep.”

  “I am concerned, lord,” said Innicas, “about the man, Waylander. Was he not allied with Dardalion many years ago?”

  “He is a killer. No more, no less. He has no understanding of the mystic arts.”

  “He slew nine of our warriors,” Casta pointed out.

  “He has a stepdaughter, Miriel. It is she who has talent. And with him were two arena warriors named Senta and Angel. Also there was the renegade Belash. The timing of the attack was unfortunate, but they will not survive a second assault—that I promise you.”

  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but this Waylander does seem to show a spectacular talent for survival,” said Innicas. “Do we know where he is?”

  “At this moment he is being pursued through Sathuli lands. He is wounded, alone—save for a mangy hound—and has little food and no water. The hunters are closing in. We shall see how far his talent for survival can be stretched.”

  “And the girl?” asked the gray-haired Casta.

  “At Dros Delnoch. But she will join Kesa Khan. She will be at Kar-Barzac.”

  “You want her taken alive?” asked Melchidak.

  “It matters not to me,” answered Zhu Chao, “but if she is, then give her to the men. Let them amuse themselves. When they are done, sacrifice her to the master.”

  “You spoke, lord, of the power of the Elders and immortality,” said Casta. “
What awaits us at Kar-Barzac?”

  Zhu Chao smiled. “One day at a time, Casta. When the Nadir Wolves are dead, I will show you the crystal chamber.”

  Ekodas lay in his pallet bed listening to the sounds of the night: the flapping of bats’ wings beyond the open window, the sibilant sighing of the winds of winter. It was cold, and the single blanket did little to conserve his body heat.

  In the next bed Duris was snoring. Ekodas lay awake, ignoring the cold, his thoughts focused on the Nadir woman, Shia. He wondered where she was and whether she had found her brother. He sighed and opened his eyes. Moonlight was casting deep shadows from the rafters of the roughly wrought ceiling, and a winter moth was flitting between the beams.

  Closing his eyes once more, Ekodas sought the freedom of flight. As usual that proved difficult, but at last he soared free of his body and floated alongside the moth, gazing down on his sleeping comrades. The moon was shining in a cloudless sky as he flew from the temple, and the countryside was bathed in spectral light.

  “Are you restless, Brother?” asked Magnic, appearing alongside him.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “As am I. But it is silent here, and we are free of the flesh.” It was true, and Ekodas acknowledged it. The world was a different place when viewed through spirit eyes, tranquil and beautiful, eternal and almost sentient. “You spoke well, Ekodas. You surprised me.”

  “I surprised myself,” he admitted. “Though, as I am sure you are aware, I am not totally convinced even by my own arguments.”

  “I think none of us are truly sure,” Magnic said softly, “but there must be balance. Without it harmony cannot be found. I fear the Brotherhood, and I loathe and despise all they stand for. You know why?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Because I long for such pleasures myself. Deep in me I can see the attraction of evil, Ekodas. We are stronger than normal men. Our talents could earn us fame, riches, and all the pleasures known to man. And in my quiet moments I know that I lust for these things.”

  “You are not responsible for your desires,” said Ekodas. “They are primal, a part of being human. Only if we act upon them do we sin.”

  “I know that, but it is why I could not take up the staff. I could never be a priest of love, never. At some time in the future I would succumb to my desires. This is why the Thirty is for me. I have no future save with the Source. You are different, my friend. You are strong. Like Dardalion once was.”

  “You thought me a coward,” Ekodas pointed out.

  Magnic smiled. “Yes, but I was seeing only my own lack of courage. Transferring it to you.” He sighed. “Now that our way is set, I see everything differently. And now I must continue my watch.” Magnic vanished, and Ekodas floated alone in the night sky. The temple below was gray and forbidding, its turrets rearing against the sky like upraised fists.

  “It is still a fortress,” Shia had said. And so it was. Just like us, Ekodas realized. Prayer within, might without. There was comfort in the thought, for a fortress, no matter how many spears, swords, and arrows were contained within it, could never be an offensive weapon.

  He soared higher and to the north, through thin, misty clouds that were forming above the mountains. Below him the mighty fortress of Dros Delnoch spanned the pass.

  He floated down. On the last wall he saw a tall, dark-haired woman sitting beside a handsome golden-haired man. The man reached out to take the woman’s hand, but she drew back, turning her head to gaze up at Ekodas.

  “Who are you?” she asked him, her spirit voice as loud as thunder within him. Ekodas was astonished and suddenly disconcerted. Swiftly he flew high and away from the fortress. Such power! His mind reeled.

  Just then a terrible scream filled his ears. Brief, agonizing, and then it terminated. He sped for the temple.

  A man appeared alongside him, a blade of fire in his hand. Ekodas twisted in the air, the sword hissing by him. He reacted without conscious thought, the long years of training and Dardalion’s endlessly patient tuition coming together in an instant to save his life. “In spirit form,” Dardalion had told them, “we are naked and unarmed. But I will teach you to craft armor from faith, swords from courage, and shields from belief. Then you will stand against the demons of the dark and the men who aspire to be like them.”

  Ekodas armored himself with a shining breastplate of silver, a glimmering shield appearing on his left forearm. He parried the next blow with his own sword of silver light.

  His opponent was protected by black armor and a full-faced helm. Ekodas blocked a thrust, then sent his blade slicing into the man’s neck. The sword of light flashed through the dark armor like sunlight piercing a storm cloud. There was no blood, no scream of pain. His assailant merely disappeared without a sound. But Ekodas knew that wherever the man’s body lay the heart had stopped beating, and only a silent, unmarked corpse would lie witness to the battle beneath the stars.

  Ekodas flew on to the temple. “Dardalion!” he pulsed, using all his power. “Dardalion!”

  Three opponents appeared around him. The first he slew with a slashing cut across the belly, the silver sword slicing through the dark armor with terrible ease. The second he killed with a riposte to the head. The third loomed behind him, blade raised.

  Vishna appeared, lancing his sword through the man’s back. More warriors appeared above the temple, and the Thirty gathered, silver against black, swords of light against blades of fire.

  Ekodas fought on, his sword forming glittering arcs of white light as it cleaved the enemy. Beside him Vishna battled with controlled fury. All around them the battle raged in an awful silence.

  And then it was over.

  Weary beyond anything he had ever experienced, Ekodas returned to his body and sat up. He reached over to Duris, but the man was dead. So, too, was Branic in the far bed.

  Ekodas stumbled from the room, down to the hall. One by one the members of the Thirty gathered there. Twenty-three priests had survived the attack, and Ekodas looked from face to face, seeking out those to whom he was closest. Glendrin was alive, and Vishna, but Magnic was gone. It seemed only moments before that he had been talking with the blond priest about life and desire. Now there was only a body to be buried, and they would never, in this world, speak again.

  The full weight of sorrow descended on Ekodas, and he sank to the bench seat, resting his elbows on the table. Vishna moved alongside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “Your warning saved us, Ekodas,” he said.

  “My warning?”

  “You woke Dardalion. He made the gather.”

  Before Ekodas could respond, Dardalion spoke up from the far end of the hall. “My brothers, it is time to pray for the souls of our departed friends.” One by one he named them, and many tears were shed as he talked of them. “They are with the Source now and are blessed. But we remain. Some days ago we asked for another sign. I think that we have just seen it. The Brotherhood is preparing to ride against the Nadir. It is my belief that we should be in the Mountains of the Moon to receive them. But that is only my view. What is the view of the Thirty?”

  Ekodas rose. “The Mountains of the Moon,” he said.

  Vishna echoed the words, as did Glendrin, Palista, fat Merlon, and all the surviving priests.

  “Tomorrow, then,” said Dardalion. “And now let us prepare the bodies of our friends for burial.”

  12

  ANGEL’S HEAD WAS pounding, and his anger flowed unabated as Miriel paid the fine to the master-at-arms.

  “We don’t like troublemakers here,” the man told Miriel. “Only his reputation prevented him from receiving the flogging he deserves.”

  “We are leaving Delnoch today,” she said, smiling sweetly as the man counted out the twenty silver coins.

  “I mean, who does he think he is?” the soldier persisted.

  “Why not ask me, you arrogant whoreson?” stormed Angel, his hands gripping the bars of the cell door.

  “You see?”
said the man, shaking his head.

  “He is not usually quarrelsome,” replied Miriel, casting a warning glance at the former gladiator.

  “I think he should have been flogged,” put in Senta with a broad grin. “What a mess. The tavern looks as though a tidal wave flowed through it. Disgraceful behavior.”

  Angel merely glared. The master-at-arms slowly rose and lifted a huge ring of keys from a hook by the door. “He is to be taken straight from Delnoch. No stopping. Are your horses outside?”

  “They are,” said Miriel.

  “Good.” He unlocked the cell door, and the glowering Angel stepped into the room. One eye was blackened and half-closed, and his lower lip was split.

  “I’d say it was an improvement,” said Senta.

  Angel pushed past him, striding out into the sunlight. Belash was waiting, his dark eyes inscrutable.

  “Don’t say a word!” warned Angel, snatching the reins of his mount from the tethering post and climbing into the saddle. Miriel and Senta emerged into the sunlight, the master-at-arms behind them.

  “Straight out, no stopping,” repeated the soldier.

  Miriel swung into the saddle and led the group down to the gate tunnel below the fifth wall. Sentries examined the passes Miriel had obtained and waved them through, across the open ground to the next tunnel and the next. At last they rode out into the pass itself.

  Senta moved his horse alongside Angel’s mount. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you go—” He closed his mouth on the words as Miriel reined back, swinging her horse alongside him.

  “What happened, Angel?” she asked.

  “Why don’t you read my mind and find out?” he snapped.

  “No,” she said. “You and Senta are right—it is bad manners. I’ll not do it again, I promise. So tell me how the fight started.”

  “It was just a fight,” he answered with a shrug. “Nothing to tell.”

  Miriel turned to Belash. “You were there?”