The Nadir nodded. “A man asked old Hard-to-Kill what it is like to have a face that a cow has trampled on.”
“Yes? And then?”
“He said, ‘Like this!’ Then he broke the man’s nose.” Belash mimicked the blow, a straight left.
Senta’s laughter pealed out, echoing in the pass. “It is not something to laugh at,” insisted Miriel. “One man with a broken nose and jaw, two others with broken arms. One even fractured his leg.”
“That was the man he threw out of the window,” said Belash. “And it was not even open.”
“Why were you so angry?” Miriel asked Angel. “Back at the cabin you were always so … so controlled.”
He relaxed and sat slumped in the saddle. “That was then,” he told her, touching his heels to the gelding and riding ahead.
Senta glanced at Miriel. “You don’t see a great deal without your talent, do you?” he observed, urging his horse into a canter and coming alongside Angel once more.
“What now?” asked the gladiator.
“You took out six men with your bare hands. That’s impressive, Angel.”
“Is there a joke coming?”
“No. I’m sorry I missed the fight.”
“It wasn’t much. A bunch of town dwellers. Not a single muscle in sight.”
“I’m glad you decided to stay with us. I’d have missed your company.”
“I’d not miss yours, boy.”
“Oh, yes, you would. Tell me, how long have you been in love with her?”
“What kind of a stupid question is that?” stormed Angel. “I’m not in love. Shemak’s balls, Senta, look at me! I’m almost as old as her father, and my face would curdle milk. No, she’ll be better off with a younger man. Even you, may my tongue turn black for saying it.”
Senta was about to speak when he saw a rider emerging from the rocks to the left. It was a young Nadir woman with jet-black hair, wearing a goatskin tunic and tan leggings. Belash galloped past them and leapt from the saddle. The woman dismounted and embraced him. Miriel, Senta, and Angel sat their mounts quietly as the two Nadir conversed in their own tongue. Then Belash led the girl to the waiting trio.
“This is Shia, my sister. She was sent to find me,” he told them.
“It is good to meet you,” said Senta.
“Why? You do not know me.”
“It is a traditional greeting,” he explained.
“Ah. What is the traditional response?”
“That depends on the circumstances,” said Senta. “And this is Miriel.” Shia glanced at the tall mountain woman, seeing the knives on the black baldric and the saber at her side.
“What a strange people,” she said. “Men who live like women and women who arm themselves like men. Truly it is beyond understanding.”
“And this is Angel.”
“Yes,” she said. “Old Hard-to-Kill. It is good to meet you.” Angel shook his head and grunted. Tugging his reins, he moved off down the pass. “Was the greeting incorrect?” Shia asked Senta.
“He’s having a bad day,” observed the swordsman.
* * *
Bodalen tried to blame his trembling on the cold wind hissing down from the high passes of the Mountains of the Moon, but he knew better. Seven days from Gulgothir and deep into Nadir territory, his fear was almost uncontrollable. The eleven riders had skirted three small tent villages and encountered no hostile action, but Bodalen’s mind was filled with images of torture and mutilation. He had heard many stories of the Nadir, and the thought that the tribesmen were close was unmanning him.
What am I doing here? he asked himself. Riding into a hostile land with scum like Gracus and his men. It’s your fault, Father. Always pushing, cajoling, forcing! I’m not like you. I never was, nor would I wish to be! But you made me what I am.
He recalled the day Galen had first approached him, bringing with him the refined Lorassium leaf, and remembered with pleasure the taste of it on his tongue, bitter and numbing, and with it the exquisite thrill that had run through his veins. All his fears had vanished; all his dreams had grown. Joy beyond reckoning had flooded his senses. Oh, yes. The memories of the orgies that had followed aroused him even now, as his horse slowly trudged along the mountain trail. Passion and the daring excitement of pain inflicted on willing—aye, and unwilling—partners, the slender whips, the begging screams.
Then Galen had introduced him to the Lord Zhu Chao. And the promises had begun. When Karnak—that bloated, self-obsessed tyrant—was dead, it would be Bodalen who would rule the Drenai. And he could fill his palace with concubines and slaves. A lifetime of pleasure, free from restraint. What price those promises now?
He shivered and swung to see the dark, hawklike Gracus riding just behind him, the other riders following in a silent line. “Almost there, Lord Bodalen,” said Gracus, unsmiling.
Bodalen nodded but did not reply. He knew he lacked his father’s physical courage, but he lacked nothing of his intelligence. Zhu Chao no longer saw him as a person of value. He was being used as an assassin.
Where had it all gone wrong? He licked his lips. That was easy to answer. When that damned girl had died.
Waylander’s daughter.
What a cursed trick of fate!
His horse reached the crest of the trail, and Bodalen gazed down on a green valley with sparkling streams. It was some two miles across and perhaps four deep, and at the center reared an ancient fortress with four turrets and a portcullis gate. Bodalen blinked and rubbed his eyes. The turrets were leaning and twisted, the walls uneven, as if the earth had reared up below the structure, yet it still stood.
Gracus drew alongside. “Kar-Barzac,” he said.
“It looks like something fashioned by a drunken man,” said Bodalen.
Gracus shrugged, unconcerned. “We can shelter there,” he answered.
Slowly the eleven riders filed down into the valley. Bodalen could not take his eyes from the citadel. The windows, archers’ slits, were not straight but crooked, each a different height, some canted, others stretched. “It couldn’t have been built like that, surely?” he asked Gracus. One of the towers leaned out at an impossible angle, yet there were no cracks in the great stones. As they drew closer, Bodalen remembered a visit to an armory when he was a child. Karnak had shown him a great furnace. They had thrown an iron helm into the fire, and the boy had watched as it had slowly melted. Kar-Barzac was like that helm.
They rode across the valley, and Gracus pointed at a nearby tree. The trunk was split and had curled around itself, forming a weird knot. And the leaves were sharp and long, five-pronged and red as blood. Bodalen had never seen a tree like it.
As they neared the citadel, they saw the half-eaten carcass of a bighorn sheep. Gracus angled his mount to ride close to the body. Bodalen followed him. The sheep’s eyes were gone, but the head remained, mouth wide open.
“By the blood of Missael!” whispered Bodalen. The sheep had short, pointed fangs.
“This valley is bewitched!” said one of the men.
“Be silent!” roared Gracus, dismounting. He knelt by the carcass. “It looks as if it has been chewed by rats,” he said. “The bite marks are small.” He stood and swung into the saddle.
Bodalen felt his unease growing. Everything in this valley seemed unnatural. Sweat rolled down his back. He glanced at Gracus, noting the beads of perspiration on his brow. “Is it just fear, or is it hotter here?” he asked the warrior.
“It’s hotter,” answered Gracus. “But that’s often the way with mountain valleys.”
“Not this hot, surely.”
“Let’s get to the castle,” said Gracus.
A horse screamed and reared, unseating the rider. Instantly a host of ratlike creatures swarmed from the long grass, leaping on the man and covering him in a blanket of gray striped fur. Blood spouted from a score of wounds. Gracus swore and kicked his horse into a gallop, Bodalen following him.
No one even looked back.
The
ruined gates of the castle loomed before them, and the ten remaining riders galloped into the courtyard beyond. That, too, was uneven but showed no cracks or breaks in the marble. Bodalen swung down from the saddle and ran to a rampart stair, climbing swiftly to the crooked battlements. Out on the valley floor all was still save for the writhing gray fur mound where once there had been a man.
“We can’t stay here!” said Bodalen as Gracus joined him at the battlements.
“The master has ordered it. That is an end to the matter.”
“What were those things?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of small cat, perhaps.”
“Cats don’t hunt like that,” insisted Bodalen.
“Rats! Cats! What difference does it make? The master says to hide here and kill Kesa Khan. That we will do.”
“But what if there are creatures like that living below the castle? What then, Gracus?”
“We will die,” the warrior answered with a grim smile. “So let us hope there are none.”
Waylander lay flat, he and Scar partly covered by his cloak, which he had reversed so that the sheepskin lining merged with the snow around him. His right arm was stretched out over the dog, and he stroked the broad head.
“Stay silent, boy,” he whispered. “Our lives depend on it.”
No more than sixty paces back down the trail seven Sathuli warriors were examining tracks in the snow. The gash in Waylander’s leg was healing fast, but the wound in his upper left arm nagged at him. They had almost surprised him two days before, laying an ambush in a narrow pass. Four Sathuli had died in the attack, with a fifth left mortally wounded, his lifeblood gushing from a tear in the great artery at the groin. Scar had killed two, but had it not been for a sudden change in the direction of the wind that had alerted the hound, Waylander would now be dead. As it was, his arm ached, the wound constantly leaking blood. It was too far back for him to stitch the tear and too close to the shoulder joint to bandage. A low rumbling growl began in Scar’s throat, but he patted the dog, whispering soothing words.
The seven Sathuli were trying to make sense of the tracks leading up the hill. Waylander knew what they were thinking. The human footprints were leading north, but the tracks of the hound went both up and down the hill. The Sathuli were confused. At the top of the slope the trail narrowed, a huge boulder by the trees making an ideal hiding place. Not one of the warriors wanted to walk that slope, fearing a hidden crossbowman. Waylander could not hear their arguments, but he saw two of them gesticulating, pointing to the east. Waylander had taken a chance, moving carefully up the slope and then retracing his steps, walking backward, placing his feet in the tracks he had made during the climb. Then he had lifted Scar, hurling the yelping hound into a snowdrift to the left of the trail. A long branch overhung the slope there, and Waylander had leapt to grasp it, moving hand over hand until he had dropped to the ground by the trunk. Then, the huge hound beside him, he had hunkered down to wait for the Sathuli.
He was cold and wet. Reversing the cloak had made him almost invisible in the snow, but it also countered the heat-retaining qualities of the sheepskin, and he began to shiver.
The Sathuli concluded their discussions. Three men moved up the slope, two heading to the right of the trail and two to the left.
Waylander winced as he pulled his crossbow into position, the wound in his arm seeping fresh blood. Silently he eased himself back, moving behind a snow-covered screen of bushes, then traversing the slope and climbing to where several fallen trees had created a latticed wall on the hillside. Scar padded behind him, tongue lolling from his massive jaws.
The two Sathuli came in sight. Both carried short hunting bows, arrows notched. Waylander laid his hand on Scar’s shoulder, gently pushing him down. “Quiet now!”
The white-robed warriors drew alongside the tree wall. Waylander rose, arm extended. The first bolt flew, punching through the leading warrior’s temple. He dropped without a sound. The second swung, dropped his bow, and drew his tulwar.
“Face me like a man, blade to blade!” he demanded.
“No,” replied Waylander. The second bolt slashed through the man’s robe, cleaving his heart. His mouth opened. The tulwar dropped from his hand. He took two tottering steps toward Waylander, then pitched to his face in the snow.
Retrieving his bolts, Waylander stripped the white robes from the first corpse and the burnoose from the second. Within moments he became a Sathuli warrior. Scar padded out and stood before him, head cocked to one side, nostrils quivering. “It is still me,” said the man, kneeling down and extending his hand. Scar edged cautiously forward, sniffing at the out-stretched fingers. Satisfied, the hound sat back on its haunches. Waylander patted its head.
“Time to move,” said the man. Reloading the crossbow, he carefully traversed the slope.
By then the other hunters would have found where the tracks stopped and would be regrouping, rethinking their strategy. Then it would become apparent that two of their number were missing, and they would know Waylander was behind them. They would have two choices: wait for him to come to them or continue the hunt.
Waylander had fought the Sathuli before both as a soldier leading troops and as a lone traveler. They were a patient people yet ruthless and courageous. But he did not think they would wait for him. Trusting in the advantage of numbers, they would set out to find their missing companions and then follow his tracks. Therefore, since he could not disguise his trail, he would have to render it useless to them.
Reaching the top of the slope, he moved silently into the snow-shrouded pine wood. There were few sounds there: the gentle sighing of the mountain breeze, the occasional groaning of a branch weighed down with snow. Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out slowly, then rose, moving back toward the east in a wide circle until he came to the high point of the slope above where he had earlier lain in wait for the two Sathuli. Kneeling behind a boulder, he gazed down to where the bodies lay. The corpses were still there but had been turned onto their backs, arms folded across their chest, their tulwars in their hands.
“Wait here, Scar,” he told the dog, and moved to the edge of the slope. The hound trotted after him. Twice more he tried to make the dog obey. At last he gave up. “You need training, you ugly whoreson!”
Carefully Waylander made his way down to the tree wall until he came to the tracks he had made not an hour before. They were overlaid now by the footprints of the hunters. Waylander smiled. The tracks now formed a great ring with no beginning and no end. Calling the hound to him, he knelt and with a groan lifted Scar to his shoulder. “You are a troublesome ally, boy!” he said. Hauling himself to the tree wall, he inched his way back along it, clambering down by the base of the largest fallen tree, where the snow-covered roots clawed uselessly at the sky. There, his tracks hidden by thick bushes, he climbed back to the crest of the slope and settled down to wait.
It was nearing dusk when the first of the trackers came into sight. Waylander hunkered down behind a boulder and waited until he heard the men slithering down the slope. At the bottom, by the bodies, they began to argue among themselves. He could not follow the debate, but at least one of the men used the Sathuli word for circle. They were angry and tired, and one sat down on the tree wall, flinging down his bow.
Waylander watched them dispassionately. Once more they had two choices: continue to follow the circle toward the south or retrace their steps back up the slope. If they moved south, he would chance the open valleys to Gothir lands.
If they went north, he would have to kill them.
They talked for almost an hour. The light was beginning to fail. The warrior who had flung down his bow cleared away a section of snow and built a fire. The others hunkered down around it. Once the flames were high, they added wet pine needles to the blaze, a thick, oily smoke rising to the darkening sky.
Waylander cursed and eased back from the crest. “They’re calling for more help,” he told the uncomprehending hound. “But from where—nor
th or south? Or both?” Scar cocked his head and licked at Waylander’s hand. “We’ll have to run for it, boy, and take our chances.”
Rising, he moved silently toward the south, the hound beside him.
“It makes no sense,” said Asten, his voice trembling despite his attempts to remain calm.
Karnak chuckled and thumped the angry general on the shoulder. “You worry too much, old lad. Look, the Gothir are ready to invade as soon as the Ventrians land. They are not going to risk attacking Delnoch; they’ve made a deal with the Sathuli lord. Well, I can make deals, too. And if we stop the Gothir, then we can use all our forces against the Ventrians and crush them in a single battle.”
“That’s all well and good, Karnak, but why does it have to be you that rides into Sathuli lands? It’s madness!”
“Galen assures me we have safe conduct.”
“Pah!” Asten sneered. “I wouldn’t believe that walking snake if he told me the sun shines in the summertime. Why can’t you see it?”
“See what?” countered Karnak. “See that you and he are not exactly bosom friends? It matters nothing. You are a fine leader of men, while his talent for duplicity and deceit is invaluable. I don’t need my officers to like one another, Asten, but you carry your dislike to extremes that affect your judgment.”
Asten reddened but took a deep breath before he replied. “As you say, I am a good leader—no false modesty—but I am not and never will be a charismatic leader. I cannot raise morale to the heights you can. You are vital to us, and now you are planning to ride into Sathuli lands with a mere twenty men! They hate us, Karnak—you most of all. Before the Vagrian War you led two legions into their territory and crushed their army. Kashti’s teeth, man, you killed the present lord’s father!”
“Ancient history!” snapped Karnak. “They are a warrior race. They understand the nature of battle.”
“The risk is too great,” said Asten wearily, knowing he had lost.
Karnak grinned. “Risk? Gods, man, that’s what I live for! To look into the eye of the beast, to feel its breath on my face. What are we if we face no dangers? Frail flesh and bone to live and age and die. I’ll ride into those mountains with my twenty men, I’ll beard the Sathuli lord in his own den, and I’ll win him over. The Gothir will not reach the Sentran Plain, and the Drenai will be secure. Isn’t that a risk worth taking?”
In the Realm of the Wolf Page 20