David Gemmell - Drenai Tales 05 - In the Realm of the Wolf

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Prologue

The man called Angel sat quietly in the corner of the tavern, his huge gnarled

hands cupped around a goblet of mulled wine, his scarred features hidden by a

black hood. Despite the four open windows, the air in the sixty-foot room was

stale, and Angel could smell the smoke from the oil-filled lanterns, merging

with the combined odours of sweating men, cooked food and sour ale.

Lifting his goblet Angel touched his lips to the rim, taking just a sip of the

wine and rolling it around his mouth. The Spiked Owl was full tonight, the

drinking area crowded, the dining-hall packed. But no one approached Angel as

he nursed his drink. The hooded man did not like company, and such privacy as

a man could enjoy in a tavern was accorded to the scarred gladiator.

Just before midnight an argument began between a group of labourers. Angel's

flint-coloured eyes focused on the group, scanning their faces. There were

five men, and they were arguing over a spilled drink. Angel could see the rush

of blood to their faces, and knew that despite the raised voices, none of them

was in the mood to fight. When a battle is close the blood runs from the face,

leaving it white and ghostly. Then his gaze flickered to a young man at the

edge of the group. This one was dangerous! The man's face was pale, his mouth

set in a thin line, and his right hand was hidden within the folds of his

tunic.

Angel looked back towards Balka, the tavern-owner. The burly former wrestler

stood behind the serving shelf, watching the men. Angel relaxed. Balka had

seen the danger and was ready.

The row began to die down - but the pale young man said something to one of

the others and fists suddenly flew. A knife flashed in the lantern light, and

a man shouted in pain.

Balka, a short wooden club in his right hand, vaulted the serving shelf and

leapt at the white-faced knife-wielder, cracking the club first against the

man's wrist, forcing him to drop the blade, then hammering a blow to the

temple. He dropped to the sawdust-covered floor as if poleaxed.

That's it, my lads!' roared Balka. The night is done.'

'Oh, one more drink, Balka?' pleaded a regular.

Tomorrow,' snapped the tavern-keeper. 'Come on, lads. Let's clear away the

mess.'

The drinkers downed the last of their ale and wine, and several took hold of

the unconscious knifeman, dragging him into the street. The man's victim had

been stabbed in the shoulder; the wound was deep, his arm numb. Balka gave him

a large tot of brandy before sending him on his way to find a surgeon.

At last the tavern-owner shut the door, dropping the lock-bar into place. His

barmen and serving girls began gathering tankards, goblets and plates, and

righting tables and chairs knocked over in the brief fight. Balka slipped his

club into the wide pocket of his leather apron and strolled to where Angel

sat.

'Another quiet evening,' he muttered, pulling up a chair opposite the

gladiator. Manic!' he called. 'Bring me a jug.'

The young cellar boy emptied a bottle of the finest Lentrian red into a clay

jug, sought out a clean pewter goblet, and carried both to the table. Balka

looked up at the boy and winked. 'Good lad, Janic,' he said. Janic smiled,

cast a nervous glance at Angel and backed away. Balka sighed and leaned back

in his chair.

'Why don't you just pour it from the bottle?' asked Angel, his grey eyes

staring unblinking at the tavern-keeper.

Balka chuckled. 'It tastes better from clay.'

'Horse dung!' Angel reached across the table, lifting the jug and holding it

below his misshapen nose. 'It's Lentrian red ... at least fifteen years old.'

Twenty,' said Balka, grinning.

'You don't like people knowing you're rich enough to drink it,' observed

Angel. 'It would tarnish the image. Man of the people.'

'Rich? I'm just a poor tavern-keeper.'

'And I'm a Ventrian veil-dancer.'

Balka nodded and filled his goblet. 'To you, my friend,' he said, draining the

drink in a single swallow, wine overflowing to his forked grey beard. Angel

smiled and pushed back his hood, running his hand across his thinning red

hair. 'May the gods shower you with luck,' said Balka, pouring a second drink

and downing it as swiftly as the first.

'I could do with some.'

'No hunting parties?'

'A few - but no one wants to spend money these days.'

'Times are hard,' agreed Balka. 'The Vagrian Wars bled the treasury dry and

now that Karnak's upset the Gothir and the Ventrians I think we can expect

fresh battles. A pox on the man!'

'He was right to throw out their ambassadors,' said Angel, eyes narrowing.

'We're not a vassal people. We're the Drenai and we shouldn't bend the knee to

lesser races.'

'Lesser races?' Balka raised an eyebrow. This may surprise you, Angel, but I

understand that non-Drenai people also boast two arms, two legs and a head.

Curious, I know.'

'You know what I mean,' snapped Angel.

'I know - I just don't happen to agree with you. Here, enjoy a little quality

wine.'

Angel shook his head. 'One drink is all I need.'

'And you never finish that. Why do you come here? You hate people. You don't

talk to them and you don't like crowds.'

'I like to listen.'

'What can you hear in a tavern, save drunkards and loud-mouths? There is

little philosophy spoken here that I've ever heard.'

Angel shrugged. 'Life. Rumours. I don't know.'

Balka leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table. 'You miss it,

don't you? The fights, the glory, the cheers.'

'Not a bit,' responded the other.

'Come on, this is Balka you're talking to. I saw you the

day you beat Barsellis. He cut you bad - but you won. I saw your face as you

raised your sword to Karnak. You were exultant.'

'That was then. I don't miss it. I don't long for it,' Angel sighed, 'but I

remember the day, right enough. Good fighter was Barsellis, tall, proud, fast.

But they dragged his body across the arena. You remember that? Face-down he

was, and his chin made a long, bloody groove in the sand. Could have been me.'

Balka nodded solemnly. 'But it wasn't. You retired undefeated - and you never

went back. That's unusual. They all come back. Did you see Caplyn last week?

What an embarrassment. He used to be so deadly. He looked like an old man.'

'A dead old man,' grunted Angel. 'A dead old fool.'

'You could still take them all, Angel. And earn a fortune.'

Angel swore and his face darkened. 'I'd bet that's what they told Caplyn.' He

sighed. 'It was better when we fought hand to hand, no weapons. Now the crowd

just want to see blood and death. Let's talk about something else.'

'What - politics? Religion?'

'Anything. Just make it interesting.'

'Karnak's son was sentenced this morning: one year in exile in Lentria. A man

is murdered, his wife falls to her death, and the killer is exiled for a year

to a palace by the coast. There's justice for you.'

'At least Karnak put the boy on trial,' said Angel. 'The sentence could have

been worse. And don't forget, the murdered man's father pleaded for leniency.

Quite a moving speech, I understand - all about high spirits and accidents and

forgiveness.'

'Fancy that,' observed Balka drily.

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'Oh, come on, Angel! Six men - all nobles - all drunk, snatch a young married

woman and try to rape her. When her husband attempts to rescue her he is cut

down. The woman runs and falls over a cliff-edge. High spirits? And as for the

murdered man's father, I understand Karnak was so

moved by his pleas that he sent a personal gift of two thousand Raq to the

man's village, and a huge supply of grain for the winter.'

'Well, there you are,' said Angel. 'He's a good man.'

'I don't believe you sometimes, my friend. Don't you think it odd that the

father should suddenly make that plea? Gods, man, he was coerced into it.

People who criticise Karnak tend to have accidents.'1

'I don't believe those stories. Karnak's a hero. He and Egel saved this land.'

'Yes, and look what happened to Egel.'

'I think I've had enough of politics,' snapped Angel, 'and I don't want to

talk about religion. What else is happening?'

Balka sat silently for a moment, then he grinned. 'Oh, yes, there's a rumour

that a huge sum has been offered for the Guild to hunt down Waylander.'

'For what purpose?' asked Angel, clearly astonished.

Balka shrugged. 'I don't know. But I heard it from Symius, and his brother is

the clerk at the Guild. Five thousand Raq for the Guild itself, and a further

ten thousand to the man who kills him.'

'Who ordered the hunt?'

'No one knows, but they've offered large rewards for any information on

Waylander.'

Angel laughed and shook his head. 'It won't be easy. No one has seen Waylander

in ... what ... ten years? He could be dead already.'

'Someone obviously doesn't think so.'

'It's madness - and a waste of money and life.'

'The Guild are calling in their best men,' offered Balka. They'll find him.'

'They'll wish they hadn't,' said Angel softly.

Miriel had been running for slightly more than an hour. In that time she had

covered around nine miles from the cabin in the high pasture, down to the

stream path, through the valley and the pine woods, up across the crest of Axe

Ridge, and back along the old deer trail.

She was tiring now, heartbeat rising, lungs battling to supply oxygen to her

weary muscles. But still she pushed on, determined to reach the cabin before

the sun climbed to noon high.

The slope was slippery from last night's rain and she stumbled twice, the

leather knife-scabbard at her waist digging into her bare thigh. A touch of

anger spurred her on. Without the long hunting knife and the throwing-blade

strapped to her left wrist she could have made better time. But Father's word

was law, and Miriel did not leave the cabin until her weapons were in place.

'There is no one here but us,' she had argued, not for the first time.

'Expect the best - prepare for the worst,' was all he said.

And so she ran with the heavy scabbard slapping against her thigh, the hilt of

the throwing-blade chafing the skin of her forearm.

Coming to a bend in the trail she leapt the fallen log, landing lightly and

cutting left towards the last rise, her long legs increasing their pace, her

bare feet digging into the soft earth. Her slim calves were burning, her lungs

hot. But she was exultant, for the sun was at least twenty minutes from noon

high and she was but three from the cabin.

A shadow moved to her left - talons and teeth flashing towards her. Instantly

Miriel threw herself forward, hitting the ground on her right side and rolling

to her feet. The lioness, confused at having missing her victim with the first

leap, crouched down, ears flat to her skull, tawny eyes focusing on the tall

young woman.

Miriel's mind was racing. Action and reaction. Take control!

Her hunting knife slid into her hand and she shouted at the top of her voice.

The lioness, shocked by the sound, backed away. Miriel's throat was dry, her

heart hammering, but her hand was steady on the blade. She shouted once more

and jumped towards the beast. Unnerved by the suddenness of the move the

creature slunk back several more paces. Miriel licked her lips. It should have

run by now. Fear rose, but she swallowed it down.

Fear is like fire in your belly. Controlled, it warms you and keeps you alive.

Unleashed, it burns and destroys you.

Her hazel eyes remained locked to the tawny gaze of the lioness and she noted

the beast's ragged condition, the deep angry scar to its right foreleg. No

longer fast it could not catch the swift deer, and it was starving. It would

not -could not - back away from this fight.

Miriel thought of everything Father had told her about lions: Ignore the head

- the bone is too thick for an arrow to penetrate. Send your shaft in behind

the front leg, up and into the lung. But he had said nothing about fighting

such a beast when armed with but a knife.

The sun slid from behind an autumn cloud and light shone from the knife-blade.

Instantly Miriel angled the blade, directing the gleam into the eyes of the

lioness. The great head twisted, the eyes blinking against the harsh glare.

Miriel shouted again.

But instead of fleeing the lioness suddenly charged, leaping high towards the

girl.

For an instant only Miriel froze. Then the knife swept up. A black crossbow

bolt punched into the creature's neck, just behind the ear, a second slicing

into its side. The weight of the lioness struck Miriel, hurling her back, but

the hunting knife plunged into the beast's belly.

Miriel lay very still, the lioness upon her, its breath foul upon her face.

But the talons did not rake her, nor the fangs close upon her. With a coughing

grunt the lioness died.

Miriel closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and eased herself from beneath the

body. Her legs felt weak and she sat upon the trail, her hands trembling.

A tall man, carrying a small double crossbow of black metal, emerged from the

undergrowth and crouched down beside her. 'You did well,' he said, his voice

deep.

She looked up into his dark eyes and forced a smile. 'It would have killed

me.'

'Perhaps,' he agreed. 'But your blade reached its heart.'

Exhaustion flowed over her like a warm blanket and she lay back, breathing

slowly and deeply. Once she would have sensed the lioness long before any

danger threatened, but that Talent was lost to her now, as her mother and her

sister were lost to her. Danyal killed in an accident five years ago, and

Krylla wed and moved away last summer. Pushing such thoughts from her mind she

sat up. 'You know,' she whispered, 'I was really tired when I came to the last

rise. I was breathing hard, and my limbs felt as if they were made of lead.

But when the lioness leapt, all my weariness vanished.' She gazed up at her

father.

He smiled and nodded. 'I have experienced that many times. Strength can always

be found in the heart of a fighter - and such a heart will rarely let you

down.'

She glanced at the dead lioness. 'Never shoot for the head -that's what you

told me,' she said, tapping the first bolt jutting from the creature's neck.

He shrugged and grinned. 'I missed.'

'That's not very comforting. I thought you were perfect.'

'I'm getting old. Are you cut?'

'I don't think so . . .' Swiftly she checked her arms and legs, as wounds from

a lion's claws or fangs often became poisonous. 'No. I was very lucky.'

'Yes, you were,' he agreed. 'But you made your luck by doing everything right.

I'm proud of you.'

'Why were you here?'

'You needed me,' he answered. Rising smoothly to his feet he reached out,

drawing her upright. 'Now skin the beast and quarter it. There's nothing quite

like lion meat.'

'I don't think I want to eat it,' she said. 'I think I'd like to forget about

it.'

'Never forget,' he admonished her. 'This was a victory. And you are stronger

for it. I'll see you later.' Retrieving his bolts the tall man cleaned them of

blood, returning them to the leather quiver at his side.

'You're going to the waterfall?' she asked him softly.

'For a little while,' he answered, his voice distant. He turned back to her.

'You think I spend too much time there?'

'No,' she told him sadly. 'It's not the time you sit there. Nor the effort you

put into tending the grave. It's you. She's been . . . gone . . . now for five

years. You should start living again. You need . . . more than this.'

He nodded, but she knew she had not reached him. He smiled and laid his hand

on her shoulder. 'One day you'll find a love and then we can talk on equal

terms. I do not mean that to sound patronising. You are bright and

intelligent. You have courage and wit. But sometimes it is like trying to

describe colours to a blind man. Love, as I hope you will find, has great

power. Even death cannot destroy it. And I still love her.' Leaning forward he

drew her towards him, kissing her brow. 'Now skin that beast. And I'll see you

at dusk.'

She watched him walk away, a tall man moving with grace and care, his black

and silver hair drawn back into a tightly-tied ponytail, his crossbow hanging

from his belt.

And then he was gone - vanished into the shadows.

The waterfall was narrow, no more than six feet wide, flowing over white

boulders in a glittering cascade to a leaf-shaped bowl thirty feet across and

forty-five long. At its most southern point a second fall occurred, the stream

surging on to join the river two miles south. Golden leaves swirled on the

surface of the water, and with each breath of breeze more spiralled down from

the trees.

Around the pool grew many flowers, most of them planted by the man who now

knelt by the graveside. He

glanced up at the sky. The sun was losing its power now, the cold winds of

autumn flowing over the mountains. Waylander sighed. A time of dying. He gazed

at the golden leaves floating on the water and remembered sitting here with

Danyal and the children, on another autumn day ten lifetimes ago.

Krylla was sitting with her tiny feet in the water, Miriel swimming among the

leaves. 'They are like the souls of the departed,' Danyal had told Krylla.

'Floating on the sea of life towards a place of rest.'

He sighed again and returned his attention to the flower-garlanded mound

beneath which lay all he had lived for.

'Miriel fought a lion today,' he said. 'She stood and did not panic. You would

have been proud of her.' Laying his ebony-handled crossbow to one side he idly

dead-headed the geraniums growing by the headstone, removing the faded, dry

red blooms. The season was late and it was unlikely they would flower again.

Soon he would need to pull them, shaking dry the roots and hanging them in the

cabin, ready for planting in the spring.

'But she is still too slow,' he added. 'She does not act with instinct, but

with remembered learning. Not like Krylla.' He chuckled. 'You remember how the

village boys used to gather around her? She knew how to handle them, the tilt

of the head, the sultry smile. She took that from you.'

Reaching out he touched the cold, rectangular marble head-stone, his index

finger tracing the carved lines.

Danyal, wife of Dakeyras, the pebble in the moonlight

The grave was shaded by elms and beech, and there were roses growing close by,

huge yellow blooms filling the air with sweet fragrance. He had bought them in

Kasyra, seven bushes. Three had died as he journeyed back, but the remainder

flourished in the rich clay soil.

'I'm going to have to take her to the city soon,' he said. 'She's eighteen

now, and she needs to learn. I'll find a

husband for her.' He sighed. 'It means leaving you for a while. I'm not

looking forward to that.'

The silence grew, even the wind in the leaves dying down. His dark eyes were

distant, his memories solemn. Smoothly he rose and, taking up the clay bowl

beside the headstone, he moved to the pool, filled the bowl and began to water

the roses. Yesterday's rain had been little more than a shower and the roses

liked to drink deep.

Kreeg crouched low in the bushes, his crossbow loaded. How easy, he

thought,,unable to suppress a smile.

Find Waylander and kill him. He had to admit that the prospect of such a hunt

had frightened him. After all, Waylander the Slayer was no mean opponent. When

his family were slain by raiders, he roamed the land until he had hunted down

every one of the killers. Waylander was a legend among the Guild, a capable

swordsman, but a brilliant knife-fighter and a crossbowman without peer. More

than this he was said to possess mystical abilities, always sensing when

danger was near.

Kreeg sighted the crossbow at the tall man's back. Mystical abilities? Pah. In

one heartbeat he would be dead.

The man at the graveside picked up a clay bowl and moved towards the pool.

Kreeg shifted his aim, but his intended victim crouched down, filling the

bowl. Kreeg lowered his bow a fraction, slowly letting out his held breath.

Waylander was side-on now, and a sure killing shot would have to be to the

head. What was he doing with the water? Kreeg watched the tall man kneel by

the roses, tipping the bowl and splashing the contents around the roots. He'll

go back to the grave, thought Kreeg. And once there I'll take him.

So much in life depended on luck. When the kill order came to the Guild, Kreeg

had been out of money and living off a whore in Kasyra, the gold he had earned

from killing the Ventrian merchant long since vanished in the gambling dens of

the city's south side. Now Kreeg blessed the bad luck that had dogged him in

Kasyra. For all life, he knew,

was a circle. And it was in Kasyra that he had heard of the hermit in the

mountains, the tall widower with the shy daughter. He thought of the message

from the Guild.

Seek out a man named Dakeyras. He has a wife Danyal and a daughter Miriel. The

man has black and silver hair, dark eyes, and is tall, close to fifty years of

age. He will be carrying a small double crossbow of ebony and bronze. Kill him

and bring the crossbow to Drenan as proof of success. Move with care. The man

is Waylander. Ten thousand in gold is waiting.

In Kasyra Kreeg had despaired of earning such a fabulous sum. Then - blessed

be the gods - he had told the whore of the hunt.

There's a man with a daughter called Miriel who lives in the mountains to the

north,' she said. 'I've not seen him, but I met his daughters years ago at the

Priests' School. We learned our letters there.'

'Do you remember the mother's name?'

'I think it was something like Daneel. . . Donalia . . .'

'Danyal?' he whispered, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling from his lean,

scarred body.

That's it,' she said.

Kreeg's mouth had gone dry, his heart palpitating. Ten thousand! But

Waylander? What chance would Kreeg have against such an enemy?

For almost a week he toured Kasyra, asking about the mountain man. Fat Sheras

the miller saw him about twice a year, and remembered the small crossbow.

'He's very quiet,' said Sheras, 'but I wouldn't like to see his bad side, if

you take my meaning. Hard man. Cold eyes. He used to be almost friendly, but

then his wife died - five ... six years ago. Horse fell, rolled on her. There

were two daughters, twins. Good-looking girls. One married a boy from the

south and moved away. The other is still with him. Shy child. Too thin for my

taste.'

Goldin the tavern-keeper, a thin-faced refugee from the Gothir lands, also

remembered him. 'When the wife was

killed he came here for a while and drank his sorrows away. He didn't say

much. One night he just collapsed and I left him lying outside the door. His

daughters came and helped him home. They were around twelve then. The city

elders were talking of removing them from his care. In the end he paid for

places at the Priests' School and they lived there for almost three years.'

Kreeg was uplifted by Goldin's tale. If the great Waylander had taken to

drinking heavily then he was no longer to be feared. But his hopes evaporated

as the tavern-keeper continued.

'He's never been popular. Keeps to himself too much,' said Goldin. 'But he

killed a rogue bear last year, and that pleased people. The bear slaughtered a

young farmer and his family. Dakeyras hunted it down. Amazing! He used a small

crossbow. Taric saw it - the bear charged him and he just stood there, then,

right at the last moment, as the bear reared up before him he put two bolts up

through its open mouth and into the brain. Taric says he's never seen the

like. Cold as ice.'

Kreeg found Taric, a slim blond hostler, working at the Earl's stables.

'We tracked the beast for three days,' he said, sitting back on a bale of hay

and drinking deeply from the leather-bound flask of brandy Kreeg offered him.

'Never saw him break sweat - and he's not a young man. And when the bear

reared up he just levelled the bow and loosed. Incredible! There's no fear in

the man.'

'Why were you with him?'

Taric smiled. 'I was trying to pay court to Miriel, but I got nowhere. Shy,

you know. I gave up in the end. And he's a strange one. Not sure I'd want him

for a father-in-law. Spends most of his time by his wife's grave.'

Kreeg's spirits had soared anew. This was what he had been hoping for. Hunting

a man through a forest was chancy at best. Knowing his victim's habits made

the task slightly less hazardous, but to find there was one place the victim

always visited. . . that was a gift from the gods. And a graveside at that.

Waylander's mind would be occupied, full of sorrow, perhaps, and fond

memories.

So it had proved. Kreeg, following Taric's directions, had located the

waterfall soon after dawn this morning, and found a hiding place which

overlooked the headstone. Now all that was left was the killing shot. Kreeg's

gaze flickered to the ebony crossbow, still lying on the grass beside the

grave.

Ten thousand in gold! He licked his thin lips and carefully wiped his sweating

palm on the leaf-green tunic he wore.

The tall man walked back to the pool, collecting more water, then crossed to

the furthest rose bushes, crouching once more by the roots. Kreeg switched his

gaze to the headstone. Forty feet away. At that distance the barbed bolt would

punch through Waylander's back, ripping through the lungs and exiting through

the chest. Even if he missed the heart his victim would die within minutes,

choking on his own blood.

Kreeg was anxious for the kill to be over and his eyes sought out the tall

man.

He was not in sight.

Kreeg blinked. The clearing was empty.

'You missed your chance,' came a cold voice.

Kreeg swung, trying to bring the crossbow to bear. He had one glimpse of his

victim, arm raised, something shining in his hand. The arm swept down. It was

as if a bolt of pure sunlight had exploded within Kreeg's skull. There was no

pain, no other sensation. He felt the crossbow slipping from his hands, and

the world spinning.

His last thought was about luck.

It had not changed at all.

Waylander knelt by the body and lifted the ornate crossbow the man had held.

The shoulder-stock of ebony had been expertly crafted, and embossed with

swirling gold. The bow itself was of steel, most likely Ventrian, for its

finish was silky smooth and there was not a blemish to be seen. Putting aside

the weapon he returned his scrutiny to the corpse. The man was lean and tough,

his face hard, the chin square, the mouth thin. Waylander was sure he had

never seen him before. Leaning forward he dragged his knife clear of the man's

eye-socket, wiping the blade across the grass. Drying the knife against the

dead man's tunic he slipped it once more into the black leather sheath

strapped to his left forearm.

A swift search of the man's clothing revealed nothing, save four copper coins

and a hidden knife, hanging from a thong at his throat. Taking hold of the

leaf-green tunic Waylander hauled the corpse upright, hoisting the body over

his right shoulder. Foxes and wolves would fight over the remains, and he

wanted no such squabbles near Danyal's grave.

Slowly he made his way to the second waterfall, hurling the body out over the

rim and watching it plummet to the rushing stream below. At first the impact

wedged the corpse against two boulders, but slowly the pull of the water

exerted itself and Kreeg's lifeless form floated away, face-down towards the

distant river. Retrieving his own crossbow, and taking up the assassin's

weapon, Waylander made his way back to the cabin.

Smoke was lazily drifting up from the stone chimney and he paused at the edge

of the trees, staring without pleasure at the home he had crafted for Danyal

and himself. Built against the base of a rearing cliff, protected from above

by an overhang of rock, the log cabin was sixty feet long, with three large,

shuttered windows and one door. The ground before it had been cleared of all

trees, bushes and boulders, and no one could approach within a hundred feet

without being seen.

The cabin was a fortress, and yet there was beauty also. Danyal had covered

the corner joints with mottled stones of red and blue, and planted flowers

beneath the windows, roses that climbed and clung to the wooden walls, pink

and gold against the harsh, ridged bark.

Waylander scanned the open ground, searching the tree line for any second

assassin who might be hidden. But he could see no one. Carefully keeping to

cover he circled the cabin, checking for tracks and finding none, save those

made by his own moccasins and Miriel's bare feet. Satisfied

at last, he crossed to the cabin and stepped inside. Miriel had prepared a

meal of hot oats and wild strawberries, the last of the season. She smiled as

he entered, but the smile faded as she saw the crossbow he carried.

'Where did you find that?' she asked.

'There was a man hidden near the graveside.'

'A robber?'

'I don't believe so. This bow would cost perhaps a hundred gold pieces. It is

a beautifully crafted weapon. I think he was an assassin.'

'Why would he be hunting you?'

Waylander shrugged. 'There was a time when I had a price on my head. Perhaps I

still have. Or maybe I killed his brother, or his father. Who knows? One thing

is certain, he can't tell me.'

She sat down at the long oak table, watching him. 'You are angry,' she said at

last.

'Yes. He shouldn't have got that close. I should have been dead.'

'What happened?'

'He was hidden in the undergrowth some forty paces from the graveside, waiting

for the killing shot. When I moved to get water for the roses I saw a bird fly

down to land in the tree above him, but it veered off at the last moment.'

'It could have been a fox or any sudden movement,' she pointed out. 'Birds are

skittish.'

'Yes, it could have been,' he agreed. 'But it wasn't. And if he'd had enough

confidence to try for a head shot I would now be lying beside Danyal.'

"Then we've both been lucky today,' she said.

He nodded, but did not answer, his mind still puzzling over the incident. For

ten years they had lived without his past returning to haunt him. In these

mountains he was merely the widower Dakeyras. Who, after all this time, would

send an assassin after him?

And how many more would come?

The sun was hanging over the western peaks, a blazing copper disc of fire

casting a last, defiant glare over the mountainside. Miriel squinted against

the light.

'It's too bright,' she complained.

But his hand swept up, the wooden chopping board sailing into the sky.

Smoothly she brought the crossbow to her shoulder, her fingers pressing the

bronze trigger. The bolt leapt from the weapon, missing the arcing wood by

little more than a foot. 'I said it was too bright,' she repeated.

'Picture failure and it will happen,' he told her sternly, recovering the

wooden board.

'Let me throw it for you, then.'

'I do not need the practice - you do!'

'You couldn't hit it, could you? Admit it!'

He gazed into her sparkling eyes, and noted the sunlight glinting red upon her

hair, the bronzed skin of her shoulders. 'You ought to be married,' he said

suddenly. 'You are far too beautiful to be stuck on a mountainside with an old

man.'

'Don't try to evade the issue,' she scolded, snatching the board from him and

walking back ten paces. He chuckled and shook his head, accepting defeat.

Carefully he eased back the steel string of the lower bow arm. The spring-

loaded hook clicked and he inserted a short black bolt, gently pressing the

notch against the string. Repeating the manoeuvre with the upper bow arm, he

adjusted the tension in the curved bronze triggers. The weapon had cost him a

small fortune in opals many years ago, but it had been crafted by a master and

Waylander had never regretted the purchase.

He looked up and was about to ask Miriel to throw when she suddenly hurled the

board high. The sunlight seared his eyes but he waited until the spinning

board reached its highest point. Extending his arm he pressed the first bronze

trigger. The bolt flashed through the air, hammering into the board, half

splitting it. As it fell he released the second bolt. The board exploded into

shards.

'Horrible man!' she said.

He made a low bow. 'You should feel privileged,' he told her, holding back his

smile. 'I don't usually perform without payment.'

'Throw again,' she ordered him, restringing the crossbow.

'The wood is broken,' he pointed out.

'Throw the largest piece.'

Retrieving his bolts he hefted the largest chunk of wood. It was no more than

four inches across and less than a foot long. 'Are you ready?'

'Just throw!'

With a flick of his wrist he spun the chunk high into the air. The crossbow

came up, the bolt sang, plunging into the wood. Waylander applauded the shot.

Miriel gave an elaborate bow.

'Women are supposed to curtsey,' he said.

'And they are supposed to wear dresses and learn embroidery,' she retorted.

'True,' he conceded. 'How do you like the assassin's bow?'

'It has good balance, and it is very light.'

'Ventrian ebony, and the stock is hollowed. Are you ready for some swordplay?'

She laughed. 'Is your pride ready for another pounding?'

'No,' he admitted. 'I think we'll have an early night.' She looked

disappointed as they gathered their weapons and set off back to the cabin. 'I

think you need a better swordmaster than I,' he told her as they walked. 'It

is your best weapon and you are truly skilled. I'll think on it.'

'I thought you were the best,' she chided.

'Fathers always seem that way,' he said drily. 'But no. With bow or knife I am

superb. With the sword? Only excellent.'

'And so modest. Is there anything at which you do not excel?'

'Yes,' he answered, his smile fading.

Increasing his pace he walked on, his mind lost in painful memories. His first

family had been butchered by raiders, his wife, his baby girls and his son.

The picture was bright in

his mind. He had found the boy lying dead in the flower garden, his little

face surrounded by blooms.

And five years before, having found love a second time, he had watched

helplessly as Danyal's horse had struck a hidden tree root. The stallion hit

the ground hard, rolling, trapping Danyal beneath it and crushing her chest.

She had died within minutes, her body racked with pain. ,

'Is there anything at which you do not excel?'

Only one.

I cannot keep alive those I love.

Ralis liked to tell people he had been a tinker since the stars were young,

and it was not far from the truth. He could still remember when the old king,

Orien, had been but a beardless prince, walking behind his father at the

Spring Parade on the first road called the Drenai Way.

Now it was the Avenue of Kings, and much wider, leading through the triumphal

arch built to celebrate victory over the Vagrians.

So many changes. Ralis had fond memories of Orien, the first Battle King of

the Drenai, wearer of the Armour of Bronze, victor in a hundred battles and a

score of wars.

Sometimes, when he was sitting in lonely taverns, resting from his travels,

the old tinker would tell people of his meeting with Orien, soon after the

Battle at Dros Corteswain. The King had been hunting boar in Skultik Forest

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