Waylander II:In The Realm Of The Wolf (24 page)

Save, perhaps, for the sheer numbers of Nadir who roamed the steppes. The Sathuli posed no threat, whereas the Nadir, in their millions, were a future enemy to be feared.

He shrugged away such considerations and looked for the hound. It was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and scanned the slopes. There were many boulders and the dog was probably scratching at a rabbit burrow. Waylander smiled and walked on. It was cold, the weak sunshine unable to counter the biting wind. He pulled his fur-lined cloak more tightly around his shoulders.

The Sathuli would remember the chase as they sang the Songs of Passing over the hunters who would not return. He thought back to the boy who had first tried to ambush him, and was pleased that he had not killed him. As to the others, well, they had made their choices and he regretted their deaths not at all.

He could see people moving in the village below, a shepherd with a long crook striding up the hill, a dog at his side, several women at the main well, drawing buckets of cool water, children playing by the horse pasture fence. It was a peaceful scene.

He strode on, the path winding down between two huge boulders that jutted from the earth of the mountainside. In

the distance a horse whinnied. He paused. The sound had come from the east. He turned and gazed up at the thin stand of trees on the slope. There were bushes growing there and he could not see a horse. Flicking back his cloak he lifted his crossbow, stringing it and sliding two bolts into place. There should be nothing to fear now, he chided himself. The Sathuli were unlikely to venture so far north. But he waited.

Where was Scar?

Moving forward more cautiously he approached the boulders. A figure stepped into sight, green cloak fluttering in the breeze, a bent bow in his hands. Waylander threw himself to the right as the arrow leapt from the string, slicing past his face. He struck the ground on his shoulder, the impact making his hand contract, loosing the bolts on the crossbow, which hammered into the soft earth of the slope. Rolling to his feet he drew his sabre.

The man in the green cloak hurled aside his bow, drawing his own blade. ‘This is how it should be, sword to sword,’ he said, smiling.

Waylander pulled free the thongs that held his cloak in place, allowing it to drop to the earth. ‘You would be Morak,’ he said softly.

‘How gratifying to be recognised,’ answered the swordsman, angling himself towards the waiting Waylander. ‘I understand you are not at your best with a sabre, therefore I will give you a short lesson before killing you.’

Waylander leapt to the attack. Morak blocked and countered. The ringing of steel on steel echoed on the mountainside, the two sabres shining in the sunlight. Morak, in perfect balance fended off every attack, his blade licking out to open a shallow cut on Waylander’s cheek. Waylander swayed back and sent a vicious slashing blow towards Morak’s belly. The green-clad swordsman neatly sidestepped.

‘I’d say you were better than average,’ he told Waylander. ‘Your balance is good, but you are a little stiff in the lower back. It affects the lunge.’

Waylander’s hand snapped forward, a black-bladed

throwing knife flashing towards Morak’s throat. The assassin’s sabre swept up, deflecting the knife which clattered against one of the boulders. ‘Very good,’ said Morak. ‘But you are dealing with a master now, Waylander.’

‘Where is my dog?’

‘Your dog? How touching! You stand at the point of death and you are concerned for a flea-bitten hound? I killed it, of course.’

Waylander said nothing. Backing away to more level ground he watched the swordsman follow. Morak was smiling now, but the smile did not reach the gleaming green eyes. ‘I shall kill you with a remarkable lack of speed,’ he said. ‘A few cuts here and there. As the blood runs so your strength will fail. Do you think you will beg me for life?’

‘I would doubt it,’ said Waylander.

‘All men beg, you know. Even the strongest. It depends only upon where the knife enters.’ Morak leapt. Waylander’s sabre parried the thrust, the blades clashing again and again. A second small cut appeared on Waylander’s forearm. Morak laughed. ‘There is no panic in you - not yet. I like that. What happened to that daughter of yours? By Heavens I’ll yet enjoy her. Long legs, firm flesh. I’ll make her squeal. Then I’ll open her up from neck to belly!’

Waylander edged back and said nothing.

‘Good! Good! I can’t make you angry. That’s rare! I shall enjoy finding your breaking point, Waylander. Will it come when I cut off your fingers? Or will it be when your manhood is sizzling on a fire?’

He lunged again, the blade slicing the leather of Waylander’s tunic shirt just above the left hip. Waylander hurled himself forward, hammering his shoulder into the assassin’s face. Morak fell awkwardly, but rolled to his feet before Waylander could bring his sword to bear. The blades clashed again. Waylander aimed a thrust at Morak’s head, but the swordsman swayed aside, blocking the lunge and sending a riposte that flashed past

Waylander’s neck. Waylander backed away towards the boulders. Morak attacked, forcing his opponent further down the trail. Both men were sweating freely, despite the cold.

‘You are game,’ said Morak. ‘I did not expect you to prove this resilient.’

Waylander lunged. Morak parried, then attacked in a bewildering series of thrusts and cuts that Waylander fought desperately to counter. Twice Morak’s sabre pierced the upper chest of Waylander’s tunic, the blade being turned aside by the chain-mail shoulder-guard. But the older man was tiring now, and Morak knew it. He stepped back. ‘Would you like a little time to get your breath?’ he asked, with a mocking grin.

‘How did you find me?’ said Waylander, grateful for the respite.

‘I have friends among the Sathuli. After our . . . unfortunate . . . encounter back in the mountains I came here, seeking more warriors. I was with the Lord Sathuli when news of the hunt came in. The Lord Sathuli is most anxious to see you dead. He feels your journey across his lands is an insult to tribal pride. He would have sent more men - but he has other matters on his mind at the moment. Instead he paid me. By the way, would you like to know who hired the Guild to hunt you?’

‘I already know,’ Waylander told him.

‘Oh, how disappointing. Still, I am by nature a kind-hearted man, so I will at least give you a little good news before I kill you. Even as we speak the Lord Protector of the Drenai lies chained in a Sathuli dungeon, ready to be delivered to the Emperor of the Gothir.’

‘That’s impossible!’

‘Not at all. He was persuaded to meet with the Lord Sathuli, in a bid to prevent Gothir troops crossing tribal lands. He travelled with a small party of loyal soldiers and one, rather disloyal, officer. His men were slaughtered and Karnak taken alive. I saw him myself. It was quite comical. Unusual man - offered me a fortune to help him escape.’

‘He obviously doesn’t know you too well,’ said Waylander.

‘On the contrary, I have worked for him before - many times. He paid me to kill Egel.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Yes, you do - I can see it in your eyes. Ah well, recovered your breath? Good. Then let us see some blood!’ Morak advanced, his blade lancing out. Waylander blocked, but was forced back, past the jutting boulders. Morak laughed. The lesson is now over,’ he said. ‘Time for the enjoyment to begin.’

A dark shadow moved behind him and Waylander saw the hound, Scar, pulling himself painfully forward on his front paws, his back legs limp and useless. An arrow had pierced his ribs and blood was dribbling from the huge jaws. Waylander edged to the left. Morak moved right. He had not seen the dying hound. Waylander leapt forward, sending a wild cut towards Morak’s face. The assassin moved back a step - and Scar’s huge jaws snapped shut on his right calf, the fangs sinking through skin, flesh and sinew. Morak screamed in pain. Waylander stepped in and rammed his sabre into the assassin’s belly, ripping it up through the lungs.

‘That’s for the old man you tortured!’ hissed Waylander. Twisting the blade he tore it free, disembowelling the swordsman. ‘And that’s for my dog!’

Morak fell to his knees. ‘No!’ he moaned. Then toppled sideways to the earth.

Casting aside his sword Waylander knelt by the hound, stroking its head. There was nothing he could do to save the beast. The arrow had pierced its spine. But he sat with it, cradling the huge head in his lap, speaking softly, his voice soothing, until the juddering breathing slowed and finally stopped.

Then he stood, gathered his crossbow, and walked to the stand of trees where Morak had hidden his horse.

The wall was rough-built, but bound with a mortar composed of the volcanic black dust of the mountains. Once tamped down and doused with water it set to the hardness of granite. From the south the enemy faced a structure ten feet high, but on the defensive side there was a rampart which allowed the defenders to lean out and send volley after volley of arrows into the ranks of the attackers, then duck down out of sight of any enemy archers.

So far the wall had held. In several places the Gothir had rolled boulders to the foot of it trying to find a way of scaling the defence and later, the front ranks had carried crudely-built ladders. Others used ropes with iron hooks to gain purchase, but the defenders fought with tribal ferocity, hacking and killing all who reached the top.

Once the Gothir had almost formed a fighting wedge, six men forcing their way on to the rampart, but Angel, Senta and Belash had charged into them - and the Gothir warriors died within moments. Again and again the Gothir charged, wave after wave, seeking to overwhelm the Nadir by sheer force of numbers. It had not succeeded.

Yet.

But now something had changed and each defender felt the stirrings of a terrible fear. Angel noticed it first - a coldness in the pit of the belly. His hands began to tremble. The Nadir warrior alongside him dropped his sword, a low, keening moan coming from his lips. Angel glanced at Senta. The swordsman was leaning on the wall and staring out over the narrows of the pass. The Gothir had fallen back, but instead of regrouping they had retreated out of sight. At first the fifty Nadir warriors manning the rough-built wall had jeered and shouted. But now an uncomfortable silence settled on the defenders.

Angel shivered. The black walls of the mountains

loomed around him, and he felt as if he were standing inside the gaping jaws of an enormous monster. The trembling worsened. He tried to sheath his sword, but it clattered against the scabbard. He swore and laid the blade against the wall.

Three Nadir warriors turned and ran back up the pass, leaving their weapons behind them. The voice of Belash roared out. The fleeing men halted and turned, sheepishly. But the fear was growing.

Angel made his way to Senta’s side. His legs felt they had no strength, and he leaned on the wall for support. ‘What the devil is happening?’ he asked Senta. The other man, his face pale, his eyes wide, did not reply. Movement came from the mouth of the pass. Angel swung his head and saw a line of black-cloaked, black-armoured men moving towards the wall.

‘The Knights of Blood!’ whispered Senta, his voice shaking.

A Nadir beside him cried out and fell back, his bladder loosening, urine soaking his leggings. Angel saw Belash sheath his sword and snatch a bow from a warrior’s hand. Notching an arrow the stocky Nadir climbed to the top of the wall and drew back on the string. Angel heard him groan - and cry out. Then Belash slowly began to turn.

Angel hurled himself at Senta, dragging him back just as the arrow was loosed. It flashed past them, ricocheting from a rock and plunging into the shoulder of a crouching warrior.

Silently the Knights of Blood advanced.

The Nadir seemed powerless to stop them. Angel scrambled to his feet and took up his sword. The trembling was now so great he knew he would not be able to use it. The defenders began to stream back from the wall - even Belash.

A tiny man in ragged clothes moved into sight, Miriel beside him. He was wizened and ancient, but Angel felt a sudden surge of elation, cutting through the fear, firing his blood. The Nadir paused in their flight. The little shaman

ran to the wall, climbing nimbly to the top. The Knights of Blood were less than twenty paces from the wall.

Kesa Khan raised his hands and flashes of blue fire leapt from palm to palm. Angel felt all fear lifting from him; anger replaced it. The shaman’s hands swept out, bony fingers pointing at the marching, black-cloaked warriors. Blue fire lanced into the line, rippling over breastplates and helms. The man at the centre of the line stumbled. Blue fire became red as his hair burst into flames. Cloaks and leggings blazed - and the advancing line broke, men beating at the tongues of flame licking at their clothing.

The Nadir defenders returned to the wall, taking up bow and spear and sending shaft after shaft into the milling men.

The Knights of Blood broke and ran.

The little Nadir leapt down from the wall and walked away without a word.

Miriel approached Angel. ‘You should sit down. Your face is the colour of snow.’

‘I’ve never known such a fear,’ he admitted.

‘But you didn’t run,’ she pointed out.

Ignoring the compliment he gazed after the Nadir shaman. ‘I take it that was Kesa Khan. He doesn’t waste a lot of time on conversation, does he?’

She smiled. ‘He’s a tough old man, but he’s exhausted. That spell will have weakened him more than you could possibly know.’

Senta joined them. ‘We can’t hold this place,’ he said. “They almost broke through this morning, twice. Only the Source knows how we held them off.’

A cry went up from one of the defenders. Senta swung to see hundreds of Gothir warriors charging into the pass. Drawing his swords he ran back to the wall.

‘He’s right,’ said Angel. Talk to the old man! We must find another place.’ Then he too ran to join the defenders.

Bodalen followed the torch-carrying Gracus deep into the bowels of the castle, through endless corridors and down stairways of metal. Everything was twisted, unnatural, and

a low humming filled the air, causing Bodalen’s head to pound.