In the Realm of the Wolf

by David Gemmell

  “Aye,” stormed Asten. “It’s a risk I would willingly take. But then, the Drenai can afford to lose old Asten, the farmer’s son. There are many capable officers who could take his place. But who will take yours when the Sathuli betray you and nail your head to a palace post?”

  Karnak was silent for a moment. “If I do … die,” he said softly, “you’ll win for us, Asten. You’re a survivor, old lad. The men know that.”

  “Then know this, Karnak. If for any reason Galen comes back without you, I intend to cut his throat.”

  Karnak chuckled. “You do that,” he said, the smile fading. “You do exactly that!”

  13

  BLACK AND GRAY vultures, their bellies distended, hobbled on the plain. Some still squabbled over the carcasses that lay around the ruined tents. Crows had also gathered, and they darted in among the vultures, their sharp beaks pecking at unresisting flesh. Smoke spiraled lazily from the burning tents, creating a gray pall that hung over the scene of the massacre.

  Angel guided his horse down onto the plain. The glutted vultures closest to the horsemen waddled away, the others ignoring the newcomers.

  Belash and Shia rode alongside Angel. “These were Green Monkey tribe,” said Belash. “Not Wolves.” Vaulting from the saddle, he moved among the bodies.

  Angel did not dismount. To his left was a small circle of bodies, the men on the outside, the women and children within. Obviously, the last of the warriors had died defending their families. One woman had covered her baby’s body with her own, but the broken lance that jutted from her back had thrust through the infant she had shielded.

  “Must be more than a hundred dead,” said Senta. Angel nodded. To his right the bodies of five infants lay where they had been thrown against a wagon, their heads crushed. Blood stained the rim of the wagon wheel, and it was all too obvious how the babes had been killed.

  Belash walked back to where Angel sat his mount. “More than a thousand soldiers,” he said. “Heading for the mountains?”

  “Wanton slaughter,” whispered Angel.

  “Yes,” agreed Belash. “So they can’t be all bad, eh?”

  Angel felt a piercing stab of shame as he heard his own words repeated back to him, but he said nothing and tugged on the reins, galloping his horse back up the hillside to where Miriel waited.

  Her face was the color of wood ash, and she was gripping the pommel of her saddle, her knuckles bone-white. “I can feel their pain,” she said. “I can feel it, Angel. I can’t close it out!”

  “Then don’t try,” he told her.

  She let out a shuddering sigh, and huge tears formed, spilling to her cheeks. Dismounting, Angel lifted her from the saddle, holding her close as racking sobs shuddered her frame. “It is all in the land,” she said. “All the memories. Soaked in blood. The land knows.”

  He rubbed her back and stroked her hair. “It’s seen blood before, Miriel. And they can’t be hurt anymore.”

  “What kind of men could do this?” she stormed, anger replacing her sorrow.

  Angel had no answer. To kill a man in battle he understood, but to lift a baby by its heels and … He shuddered. It passed all understanding.

  Belash, Shia, and Senta rode up the hill. Miriel wiped her eyes and looked up at Belash. “The soldiers are between us and the mountains,” she said. “This is your land. What do you advise?”

  “There are paths they will not know,” he told her. “I will lead you if you still wish to go on.”

  “Why would I not?” she countered.

  “There will be no time for tears, woman, where we shall ride. Only swords and true hearts.”

  She smiled at him then, a cold smile, and mounted her horse. “You lead, Belash. We will follow.”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Shia. “We are not your people, and old Hard-to-Kill hates the Nadir. So tell me why.”

  “Because Kesa Khan asked me,” said Miriel.

  “I will accept that,” the girl said after a moment. “But what of you?” She turned her gaze to Angel and Senta.

  Senta chuckled and drew his sword. “This blade,” he said, “was specially made for me by a master armorer. It was a gift, lovely. He came to me one day and presented it. No man has ever bested me with a sword. I’m rather proud of that. But you know, I didn’t ask the armorer about the quality of the steel or the amount of care that went into its crafting. I just accepted the gift and thanked him for it. You understand?”

  “No,” she answered. “What has that to do with my question?”

  “Like trying to teach mathematics to a fish,” said Senta, shaking his head.

  Angel edged his horse forward and leaned close to Shia. “Let’s put it this way, lady. He and I are the finest swordsmen you’ll ever see, but our reasons for being here are none of your damned business!”

  Shia nodded solemnly. “That is true,” she admitted, no trace of rancor in her voice.

  Senta laughed aloud. “You should have been a diplomat, Angel.” The gladiator merely grunted.

  Belash led the way to the east and the distant mountains, Miriel riding behind with Shia, Angel alongside Senta bringing up the rear. Dark clouds loomed above the peaks, and lightning flashed like a jagged spear from earth to sky. The sound of thunder followed almost instantly.

  “The mountains are angry,” Belash told Miriel.

  “So am I,” she replied.

  A howling easterly wind blew sheets of rain across the barren, featureless land, and soon the riders were traveling hunched in their saddles, drenched through.

  For several hours they rode, until at last the sheer walls of the Mountains of the Moon loomed above them. The rain died down, and Belash rode on ahead, angling back toward the south, scanning the forbidding peaks and the open steppes to the north. They had seen no soldiers, but now, with the clouds clearing, the smoke of many campfires could be seen in the distance, drifting up to merge with the gray sky.

  “This is the secret path,” said Belash, pointing to the mountain face.

  “There’s no way through,” said Angel, gazing up at the black basaltic wall of rock. But Belash rode up a short scree slope and vanished. Angel blinked. “Shemak’s balls!” he whispered.

  Miriel urged her mount up the slope, with the others following. Virtually invisible from the outside, there was a wide crack in the face, some four feet wide, leading to a shining tunnel. Miriel rode in, Angel behind her. There was scarcely a finger’s breadth of space between thigh and wall on both sides, and several times the riders had to lift their legs up onto the saddle for their mounts to squeeze through. The walls loomed around them, and Angel felt his heartbeat quickening. Above them huge boulders were clustered, having fallen and wedged together precariously.

  Senta spoke. “If a butterfly were to land on that mass, it would all come tumbling down.” His voice echoed up into the crack. A low groan came from above them, and black dust filtered down through the rocks.

  “No speaking!” whispered Shia.

  They rode on, emerging at last on a wide ledge overlooking a bowl-shaped crater. More than a hundred tents were pitched there. Belash touched heels to his horse and galloped down the slope.

  “I think we’re home,” said Senta.

  From that high vantage point Angel could see the vastness of the steppes beyond the mountains, brown and arid, great folds across the land, rippling hills, humpbacked ridges as far as the eye could see. It was a hard, dry land, yet as the sun dipped below the storm clouds, Angel saw in the steppes a relentless beauty that spoke to his warrior’s heart. It was the beauty of a sword blade, strong and unyielding. There were no fields or meadows, no silver streams. Even the hills were sharp and unwelcoming. And the voice of the land whispered to him.

  Be strong or die, it said.

  The mountains reared around him like a jagged black crown, the tents of the Nadir seeming fragile, almost insubstantial against the eternal power of the rocks on which they stood.

  Angel shivered. Senta was righ
t.

  They were home.

  Altharin was angry. He had been angry since the emperor had given him this command. Where was the glory in wiping out vermin? Where was the advancement? Within days the main body of the army would be filing through Sathuli lands to invade the Drenai, sweeping across the Sentran Plain, meeting the Drenai sword to sword, lance to lance.

  But no, not for Altharin. He gazed up at the looming black peaks and wrapped his fur-lined cloak more tightly about his long, lean frame.

  What a place!

  Basaltic rocks, jagged and sharp. No horses could ride there; the lava beds cut their hooves to ribbons. And men on foot had to make long, lung-bursting climbs before reaching the enemy. He glanced to his left, where the hospital tents had been erected. Eighty-seven dead so far, in five miserable days.

  Turning, he strolled back to his tent, where an iron brazier glowed with hot coals. Loosening his cloak, he cast it over a canvas-backed chair. His manservant, Becca, bowed low.

  “Mulled wine, sir?”

  “No. Send for Powis.” The man scurried from the tent.

  Altharin had suspected that this assignment would not be as easy as the emperor believed. Surround and exterminate a few hundred Nadir, then rejoin the main army at the southern camp. Altharin shook his head. The first attack had gone well. The Green Monkeys had sat and watched as the Gothir lancers had ridden in, and only when the killing had begun had they recognized that death was upon them. But when the scouts had reached the camp of the Wolves, they had found it deserted, the tracks leading off into these cursed mountains.

  Altharin sighed. Tomorrow the Brotherhood would arrive, and his every move would be watched and reported back, his actions questioned, his strategies derided. I cannot win here, he thought.

  The tent flap opened, and Powis ducked into the interior. “You called for me, sir?”

  Altharin nodded. “You have gathered the reports?”

  “Not quite all of them, sir,” answered the young man. “Bernas is with the surgeons. He has a nasty wound on his face and shoulder. And Gallis is still on the peak, trying to force a path through from the north.”

  “What have you learned from the others?”

  “Well, sir, we have found only three routes through to the interior. All are defended by archers and swordsmen. The first is narrow, and the men can move only two abreast. This makes them easy targets not just for arrows but for rocks hurled from above. The second is some three hundred paces north. It is fairly wide, but the Nadir have moved rocks and boulders across it, making a rough but effective wall. We lost fourteen men there this morning. The last route is the one Gallis is trying to force. He has three hundred men with him. I don’t know yet what success he has enjoyed.”

  “Numbers?” snapped Altharin.

  “Twenty-one killed today, slightly more than forty wounded.”

  “Enemy losses?”

  “Difficult to say, sir.” The young man shrugged. “Men tend to exaggerate such matters. They claim to have killed a hundred Nadir. I would guess the figure is less than half, perhaps a quarter, of that.”

  The manservant Becca ducked inside the tent and bowed. “The Lord Gallis is returning, sir.”

  “Send him to me,” ordered Altharin.

  Moments later a tall, wide-shouldered man entered. He was around forty years of age, dark-eyed and black-bearded. His face was streaked with sweat and smeared with black volcanic dust. His gray cloak was slashed and grime-covered, and there were several dents in his embossed iron breastplate.

  “Make your report, Cousin,” said Altharin.

  Gallis cleared his throat, removed his white-plumed iron helm, and moved to the folding table, on which sat a wine jug and several goblets of copper and silver. “With your permission?” he croaked.

  “Of course.”

  The officer filled a goblet and drained it with a single swallow. “The cursed dust is everywhere,” he said. He took a deep breath. “We lost forty-four men. The pass is narrow at the base, flaring out above. We forced our way some two hundred paces toward their camp.” He rubbed at his eyes, smearing black ash across his brow. “Resistance was strong, but I thought we would get through.” He shook his head. “Then, at the narrowest point, the renegades struck.”

  “Renegades?” queried Altharin.

  “Aye, Cousin. Drenai or Gothir traitors. Two swordsmen, unbelievably skillful. Behind them, above and to the right, was a young woman with a bow. She was dressed in black. Every arrow found its mark. Between her and the swordsmen I lost fifteen men in that one place. And high above us, on both sides, the Nadir sent rocks and boulders down on us. I ordered the men to pull back, to prepare for a second thrust. Then Jarvik lost his temper and ran at the swordsmen, challenging them. I tried to stop him.” Gallis shrugged.

  “They killed him?”

  “Yes, Cousin. But I wish they had shot him. As it was, one of the swordsmen, the ugliest fellow I’ve ever seen, stepped out and accepted his challenge.”

  “You’re not telling me he defeated Jarvik in single combat?”

  “That’s exactly what I am saying, Cousin. Jarvik cut him, but the man was unstoppable.”

  “I can’t believe it!” said Powis, stepping forward. “Jarvik won the silver saber contest last spring.”

  “Believe it, boy,” snapped Gallis. Turning to Altharin, the officer shook his head once more. “No one was in the mood to continue the attack after that. I left a hundred men to hold the position and brought the rest back.”

  Altharin swore, then moved to a second folding table, on which maps were spread. “This is largely unexplored territory,” he said, “but we do know there are few sources of food within the mountains, especially in winter. Normally we would starve them out, but that is not what the emperor has ordered. Suggestions, gentlemen?”

  Gallis shrugged. “We have the numbers to eventually wear them down. We must just keep attacking on all three fronts. Eventually we must break through.”

  “How many will we lose?” asked Altharin.

  “Hundreds,” admitted Gallis.

  “And how will that look back in Gulgothir? The emperor sees this as a short punitive raid. And we all know who arrives tomorrow.”

  “Send the Brotherhood in when they get here,” said Gallis. “Let’s see how far their sorcery will carry them.”

  “I have no control over the Brotherhood, more’s the pity. What I do know, however, is that our reputations and our futures are in the balance here.”

  “I agree with that, Cousin. I’ll order the attacks to continue throughout the night.”

  “Stop grumbling,” said Senta as the curved needle once more pricked under the flesh of Angel’s shoulder, bringing together the flaps of the wound.

  “You are enjoying this, you bastard!” retorted Angel.

  “How cruel!” Senta chuckled. “But fancy letting a Gothir farm boy fool you with a riposte counter.”

  “He was good, damn you!”

  “He moved with all the grace of a sick cow. You should be ashamed of yourself, old man.” Senta completed the last of ten stitches and bit off the twine. “There. Better than new.”

  Angel glanced down at the puckered wound. “You should have been a seamstress,” he muttered.

  “Just one of my many talents,” replied Senta, rising and moving out of the cave to stare down over the mountainside. From the cave mouth he could hear the distant screams of wounded men, the echoing clash of war. The stars were bright in a clear sky, and a cold wind was hissing over the peaks and crags. “We can’t hold this place,” he said as Angel moved alongside him.

  “We’re doing well enough so far.”

  Senta nodded. “There are too many of them, Angel. And the Nadir are relying on the wall across the center pass. Once the soldiers breach that …” He spread his hands.

  Two Nadir women made their way across the open ground, bearing bowls of clotted cheese. They stopped before the Drenai warriors, eyes averted, and laid the bowls on the ground
before them, departing as silently as they had come.

  “Really welcome here, aren’t we?” observed Senta.

  Angel shrugged. There were more than a hundred tents dotted around the giant crater, and from the high cave the two men could see Nadir children playing in the moonlight, running and sending up clouds of black volcanic dust. To the left a line of women was moving into the deep caves, carrying wooden buckets and gathering water from artesian wells deep below the mountains.

  “Where tomorrow?” asked Angel, sitting down with his back to the rocks.

  “The wall, I think,” said Senta. “The other two passes are easily defended. They’ll come at the wall.” A shadow moved to the right. Senta chuckled. “He’s back, Angel.”

  The gladiator swore and glanced around. A small boy of around nine years of age was squatting on his haunches watching them. “Go away!” roared Angel, but the child ignored him. “I hate the way he just stares,” snapped Angel. The boy was thin, almost skeletal, his clothes threadbare. He wore an old goatskin tunic from which most of the hair had long since vanished and a pair of dark leggings that were torn at the knees and frayed at the waist. His eyes were slanted and black, and they stared unblinkingly at the two men. Angel tried to ignore him. Lifting the bowl of cheese, he dipped his fingers into the congealed mass and ate. “Horse droppings would taste better than this,” he said.

  “It is an acquired taste,” agreed Senta.

  “Damned if I can eat it.” He swung to the boy. “You want some?” He did not move. Angel offered him the bowl. The child licked his lips but remained where he was. Angel shook his head. “What does he want?” he asked, placing the bowl on the ground.

  “I’ve no idea, but he’s obviously fascinated by you. He followed you today, mimicking your walk. Quite funny, really. I hadn’t noticed it before, but you move like a sailor. You know, a rolling gait.”