More praise for
David Gemmell and
IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF
“Gemmell manages to take a familiar, generic scenario and infuse it with meaning.”
—Locus
“I am truly amazed at David Gemmell’s ability to focus his writer’s eye. His images are crisp and complete, a history lesson woven within the detailed tapestry of the highest adventure. Gemmell’s characters are no less complete, real men and women with qualities good and bad, placed in trying times and rising to heroism or falling victim to their own weaknesses.”
—R. A. SALVATORE
New York Times bestselling author
of The Demon Awakens
“Gemmell is very talented; his characters are vivid and very convincingly realistic.”
—CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
Author of the Wizard in Rhyme novels
By David Gemmell
Published by Ballantine Books
LION OF MACEDON
DARK PRINCE
ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG
KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN
MORNINGSTAR
DARK MOON
IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER
THE HAWK ETERNAL
THE DRENAI SAGA
LEGEND
THE KING BEYOND THE GATE
QUEST FOR LOST HEROES
WAYLANDER
IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF
THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND
THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER
HERO IN THE SHADOWS
WHITE WOLF
THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY
THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE
GHOST KING
LAST SWORD OF POWER
WOLF IN SHADOW
THE LAST GUARDIAN
BLOODSTONE
THE RIGANTE
SWORD IN THE STORM
MIDNIGHT FALCON
RAVENHEART
STORMRIDER
TROY
LORD OF THE SILVER BOW
SHIELD OF THUNDER
FALL OF KINGS
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1992 by David A. Gemmell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in Great Britain in 1992 by Random House UK Ltd., under the title Waylander II.
www.delreybooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-79754-4
v3.1
This novel is dedicated with great affection to Jennifer Taylor and her children, Simon and Emily, for sharing the joy of the American adventure, and to Ross Lempriere, who walked the dark woods once more in search of the elusive Waylander.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to my editor, Oliver Johnson, to Justine Willett, and to proofreaders Jean Maund and Stella Graham, to test readers Tom Taylor and Edith Graham, and to Mary Sanderson, Alan Fisher, Stan Nicholls, and Peter Austin.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Prologue
THE MAN CALLED Angel sat quietly in the corner of the tavern, his huge gnarled hands cupped around a goblet of mulled wine and 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 odors 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 that night, the drinking area crowded and 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 among a group of laborers. Angel’s flint-colored 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 was close the blood ran 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 was set in a thin line, and his right hand was hidden within the folds of his tunic.
Angel looked back toward 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 commotion 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, first cracking the club against the man’s wrist, forcing him to drop the blade, then hammering a blow to the temple. The man 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, and his arm was 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 that had been 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. “Janic!” 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 gray 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 onto his forked gray 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 loudmouths? There is little philosophy spoken here that I’ve ever heard.”
Angel shrugged. “Life. Rumors. 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? Facedown 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 wants 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,” Balka observed dryly.
“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 criticize Karnak tend to have accidents.”
“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 rumor that a huge sum has been offered for the Guild to hunt down Waylander.”
“For what purpose?” Angel asked, 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 is calling in their best men,” offered Balka. “They’ll find him.”
“They’ll wish they hadn’t,” Angel said softly.
1
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 Ax Ridge, and back along the old deer trail.
She was tiring, 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 its noon high.
The slope was slippery from the previous 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 had not left the cabin until her weapons had been 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 had said.
And so she ran with the heavy scabbard slapping against her thigh and the hilt of the throwing blade chafing the skin of her forearm.
Coming to a bend in the trail, she leapt over the fallen log, landing lightly and cutting left toward 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 its noon high and she was but three minutes from the cabin.
A shadow moved to her left, talons and teeth flashing toward her. Instantly Miriel threw herself forward, hitting the ground on her right side and rolling to her feet. The lioness, confused at having missed 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 toward 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, an
d she noted the beast’s ragged condition and the deep angry scar on 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 only 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 toward 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, with 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 on top of her, its breath foul on her face. But the talons did not rake her, or the fangs close on 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 on 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 earlier and Krylla wed and moved away the previous 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.