In the Realm of the Wolf (18 page)

“And there the resemblance ends,” said Senta. “His heart is rotten, Angel, and his desires are vile. It hurts me that you
would link us so.” He glanced at Miriel. “This is very fine bread. My compliments.”

Miriel ignored him, but he seemed not to notice. “Lovely area, this,” he went on. “Close to the sea and not yet plagued by people and their filth. One day I must find myself such a home in the mountains.” He looked around. “Well built, too. A lot of love and effort.” His eyes were drawn to the weapons on the wall. “That’s Kreeg’s crossbow, isn’t it? Well, well! His whore was missing him in Kasyra. Something tells me he won’t be going back to her.”

“He was like you,” Miriel said softly. “He thought it would be easy, but when you face Waylander, the only easy part is the dying.”

Senta laughed. “Everyone dies, beauty. Everyone. And if he is useful with a sword, it might be me.”

Now it was Angel who chuckled. “You are a strange man, Senta. What on earth makes you think Waylander will face you blade to blade? You won’t even see him. All you’ll feel is the bolt that cleaves your heart. And you won’t feel that for very long.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be very sporting, would it?” countered Senta, his smile fading.

“I don’t think he regards this as sport,” said Angel.

“How disappointing. Perhaps I misjudged him. From all I’ve heard he doesn’t seem to be a coward.” He shrugged. “But then, these stories do tend to become exaggerated, don’t they?”

“You have a curious sense of what denotes cowardice,” said Miriel. “When a snake comes into the house, a man does not lie down on his belly to fight it fang to fang. He just stamps on its head, then throws the useless carcass out into the night. One does not deal with vermin in the way one deals with men!”

Senta clapped his hands slowly and theatrically, but anger showed in his blue eyes.

“Finish your breakfast,” Angel said softly.

“And then I am to leave, I suppose,” Senta responded, slicing a section of meat and then lancing it with his knife and raising it toward his mouth.

“No, Senta, then you will die.”

The knife froze. Senta shook his head. “I’m not being paid to kill you, old man.”

“Just as well,” said Angel. “You wouldn’t be there to collect it. I’ll wait for you outside.”

The former gladiator stood and left the room. Senta glanced up at Miriel. “It’s a good breakfast. May I stay on for supper?”

“Don’t kill him!”

“What?” Senta seemed genuinely surprised. “I have no choice, beauty. He has challenged me.” He stared at her. “Are you and he …? No, surely not.” He stood. “I’m sorry. Truly. I quite like the old boy.”

“He’s not that old.”

“He’s twice my age, Miriel, and as a swordsman that makes him older than the mountains.”

“If you kill him, you’ll have to kill me. I’ll come for you. I swear it.”

Senta sighed, then bowed. There was no hint of mockery in his eyes. Swinging on his heel, the assassin stepped out into the light. Angel was standing some thirty feet from the door, sword in hand.

“Arena rules?” called Senta.

“As you like.”

“Are you sure about this, Angel? There is no need for us to fight. And you know well enough you will lose.”

“Don’t tell me, boy, show me!”

Senta drew his saber and advanced.

Waylander emerged from the trees and saw the two swordsmen circling one another.

“Ho, Angel!” he called. The two warriors paused, glancing up toward him as he made his way down the slope, with the stocky Nadir following. From Ralis’ description, Waylander guessed the swordsman was Senta.

“Leave him to me!” said Angel as the gap closed.

“No one fights for me,” replied Waylander, his eyes fixed on Senta, noting the man’s balance and condescending smile. There was no fear there, only cold confidence bordering on the arrogant. Waylander came closer. Still he had not drawn a weapon, and he saw Senta’s eyes glance down at the scab-barded sword. “You are hunting me?” asked Waylander, moving ever closer. Only a few paces separated them.

“I have a commission from the Guild,” replied Senta, taking a step back.

Waylander kept moving. Senta was tense now, for Waylander had halted immediately before him. “Arena rules?” inquired the assassin.

Waylander smiled. His head snapped forward, butting the blond swordsman on the bridge of the nose. Senta staggered back. Waylander stepped in and hammered his elbow into the man’s jaw. Senta hit the ground hard, his sword falling from his fingers. Waylander grabbed the man’s long golden hair, hauling him to his knees. “I don’t duel,” he said, drawing a razor-sharp knife from his baldric.

“Don’t kill him!” shouted Angel.

“As you wish,” answered Waylander, releasing his hold on the half-conscious swordsman. Senta slumped back to the ground. Waylander sheathed his knife and walked into the cabin.

“Welcome back, Father,” said Miriel, stepping into his embrace. His arms swept around her, stroking her back, his face pressed against her hair.

“We have to leave,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “We’re going north.”

“What has happened?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “We’ll talk later. Prepare two packs: food for three days, winter clothing. You know what is needed.” She nodded and looked past him. He glanced back to see the Nadir warrior standing in the doorway. “We met in the mountains,” said Waylander. “This is Belash.”

“But he’s …”

“Yes, he was. But Morak betrayed him. Left him to die.” Waylander waved the man forward. “This is my daughter, Miriel.”

Belash’s face showed no expression, but his eyes were drawn to the weapons she wore. The Nadir said nothing but walked into the kitchen, where he helped himself to a hunk of bread and some cheese.

“Can you trust him?” whispered Miriel.

Waylander’s smile was broad. “Of course not. But he will be valuable where we are going.”

“Into Gothir?”

“Yes.”

“What changed your mind?”

“There’s a man there I must find. Now prepare the packs.”

She half turned, then looked back at him. “Why did you spare Senta?”

He shrugged. “Angel asked me to.”

“Hardly a good reason.”

“It’s as good as any other.”

Miriel walked away. Waylander moved to the dead fire and sat down in the broad leather chair. Angel entered, half carrying Senta. Blood was streaming from the man’s broken nose, and his eyes were swollen half-shut. Angel lowered him to the bench seat at the table. Senta sagged forward, blood dripping to the wood. Angel found a cloth, which he passed to the man. Senta held it to his face.

Angel moved in close to Waylander and whispered, “Why is Belash still among the living?”

“A whim,” answered Waylander.

“Whims like that can kill you. They’re not like people; they’re savages spawned by demons. I think you have made a bad mistake.”

“I’ve made mistakes before. Time will tell about this one.” He stepped alongside Senta. “Lie back along the bench,” he ordered. “The blood will stop faster that way.”

“I thank you for your concern,” the swordsman muttered thickly.

Waylander sat beside him. “Be advised. Do not come against me again.”

Senta dropped the blood-covered cloth and sniffed loudly. “You taught me a valuable lesson,” he said, forcing a smile. “I shall not forget it.”

Waylander stood and strode from the cabin. Angel followed him. “You have not asked me why I wanted him alive.”

“I don’t care,” replied Waylander, kneeling and patting the hound, which had stretched out in the shade. The dog gave a low growl and arched its neck. Waylander rubbed its muzzle. “It is not important, Angel.”

“It is to me. I am in your debt.”

“How is Miriel progressing?”

“Better than she was. And I don’t want your ten thousand.”

Waylander shrugged. “Take it. I won’t miss it.”

“That’s not the point, damn you!”

“Why so angry?”

“Where are you going from here?” countered Angel.

“North.”

“May I come with you?”

“Why?” asked Waylander, genuinely surprised.

“I have nowhere else to go. And I can still train Miriel.”

Waylander nodded and was silent for several moments. “Did anything happen while I was away—between the two of you, I mean?”

Angel reddened. “Nothing! Gods, man, my boots are older than her!”

“She could do worse, Angel. And I must find her a husband.”

“That won’t take long. She’s a lovely girl, and I guess it will be good to know she’s safe like her sister.”

“Her sister is dead,” said Waylander, fighting to remain calm, his voice barely above a whisper. Once more Krylla’s face came back to him, and he felt a cold berserk rage building. “That’s why they are hunting me,” he went on. “Karnak’s son killed her. The lord protector paid the assassins because he fears I’ll hunt down the boy.”

“Gods of mercy! I didn’t know it was Krylla,” said Angel. “There was a trial, but the victim was not even named. Bodalen was exiled for a year.”

“A harsh punishment indeed.”

“But you’re not going after him?”

Waylander took a deep calming breath. “I am heading north,” he answered. “Traveling to Gothir.”

“It’s probably wise,” agreed Angel. “You cannot go against the whole Drenai army. But you do surprise me. I thought you would have put vengeance above everything else.”

“Perhaps age is making me mellow.”

Angel grinned. “You didn’t look too mellow when you downed Senta. And where in hell’s name did you find that dog? It’s the ugliest beast I’ve ever seen. Look at those scars!”

“Bear fighter,” said Waylander. “Retired, just like you.”

Senta, his nose swollen and his nostrils stained with blood, moved out into the sunlight just as Angel knelt to pet the dog.

“You know, Angel,” said the swordsman, “the resemblance is striking. If your own mother were to appear in our midst, she wouldn’t know which of you to call in for dinner.”

“The nose is an improvement, and it’s bleeding again,” replied Angel, turning away and reaching out to the hound. Its fangs showed, and a low snarl sounded. Angel drew back and stood.

Senta sniffed and spit blood to the dust, then walked past the two men and retrieved the saber that was lying in the dust. With the weapon in his hand he strolled back to Waylander. “Mercy is a rare beast,” he said. “You think it was wise to let me live?”

“If it proves a mistake, I’ll kill you,” Waylander told him.

“You are an unusual man. How did you know I wouldn’t gut you as soon as you closed in on me?”

Waylander shrugged. “I didn’t.”

The swordsman nodded. “I think I will travel with you,” he said. “I heard you tell Angel you were heading north. I’ve always wanted to return to Gothir. I had some fine times there.”

“I may not want your company,” said Waylander.

“I can see that might be so. But there was something else you told Angel that interested me greatly.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re looking for a husband for Miriel.”

“You know where I might find one?”

“Very droll. I am a rich man and not—despite your efforts—unhandsome. And my father continues to berate me for not supplying him with a grandson. I’ll take her off your hands.”

“Shemak’s balls, but you’ve got nerve!” stormed Angel.

“I like a man with nerve,” said Waylander. “I’ll think on it.”

“You’re not serious!” exclaimed Angel. “A few minutes ago this man was trying to kill you for money. He’s an assassin.”

“Which of course puts me lower on the social scale than an arena killer,” observed Senta.

“Madness!” muttered Angel, stalking back into the cabin.

Senta sheathed his saber. “Why are we heading north?” he asked.

“There’s someone I must find in Gulgothir.”

*    *    *

Miriel carried a bowl of heated water and a clean cloth to where Senta sat. She had not heard his conversation with her father, but she saw that he had his saber once more.

The blond warrior looked up through swollen eyes. He smiled. “Merciful care for the fallen hero?”

“You are not a hero,” she told him, dipping the cloth in the water and gently sponging away the blood staining his face. Reaching up, he took hold of her wrist.

“He stamped on my head, but he did not throw the useless carcass out into the forest.”

“Be grateful for that,” she said, pulling her hand free.

“Interesting man. He read me well. He knew I wouldn’t kill him before he’d drawn a weapon.”

“What will you do now?” she asked.

He grinned, then winced as pain flared through his broken nose. “I shall enter a monastery and devote my life to good works.”

“It was a serious question.”

“And you are a serious woman, beauty. Too serious. Do you laugh much? Do you dance? Do you make assignations with young men?”

“What I do is none of your affair! And stop calling me ‘beauty.’ I don’t like it.”

“Yes, you do. But it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Do you still plan to kill my father?”

“No.”

“Am I expected to believe that?”

“You are free to believe or disbelieve, beauty. How old are you?”

“I will be eighteen next summer.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“You’ll never know!” she told him. Taking up the bowl, she walked back to the kitchen, where Belash was still eating. Most of the ham was gone, and half the cheese. “Is this your first meal in a month?” she snapped.

The Nadir looked up, his dark eyes expressionless. “Fetch me water,” he ordered.

“Fetch it yourself, bowel brain!” His face darkened, and he rose from his seat. Miriel’s dagger swept up. “One wrong move, you Nadir dog eater, and the breakfast you’ve just eaten
will be all over the floor.” Belash grinned and walked to the water jug, filling a clay goblet. “What is so amusing?” she demanded.

“You
kol-isha
,” answered Belash, drawing his own knife and cutting the last slice of ham from the bone. He shook his head and chuckled.

“What about us?” persisted Miriel.

“Where are your babies?” countered Belash. “Where is your man? Why are you garbed for war? Knives and swords—such foolishness.”

“You think a woman cannot use these weapons?”