“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?”
“Of course they can. You should see my Shia—knife, sword, hand ax. But it is not natural. War is for men, for honor and glory.”
“And death,” she pointed out.
“Of course death. That is why women must be protected. Many babies must be born to replace the dead warriors.”
“It might be better just to stop the wars.”
“Pah! It is always useless to talk to women. They have no understanding.”
Miriel took a deep breath but refrained from further argument. Leaving the Nadir to his endless breakfast, she walked to her room and began to pack.
8
HEWLA EASED HER frame up from the wicker chair and winced as pain flared in her arthritic hip. The fire was dying down, and she slowly bent to lift a log onto the glowing coals. There had been a time when her fires had needed no fuel, when she had not been forced to walk the forest gathering twigs and sticks.
“Curse you, Zhu Chao,” she whispered, but the words only made her more angry, for once such a curse would have been accompanied by the beating of demon wings and the harsh raucous cries of the Vanshii as they flew to their victim.
How could you have been so stupid? she asked herself.
I was lonely.
Yes, but now you are still lonely, and the grimoires are gone.
She shivered and added another thick stick to the fire, which hungrily devoured it. It was small consolation that the Books of Spellfire would be virtually useless to Zhu Chao. For the spells contained in them had given Hewla life long after her skin should have turned to dust, had held at bay the mortal pain of her inflamed joints. The six books of Moray Sen. Priceless. She remembered the day she had shown them to him, opening the secret compartment behind the firestone. She had believed in him then, the young Chiatze, loved him. She shuddered. Old fool.
He had taken the grimoires she had schemed for, killed for, sold her soul for.
Now the Void beckoned.
Waylander will kill him, she thought with grim relish.
The room was becoming warmer, and Hewla was at last feeling some comfort from the heat. But then an icy blast of freezing air touched her back. The old woman turned. The far wall was shimmering, and a cold, cold wind was blowing through it, scattering scrolls and papers. A clay goblet on the table trembled and fell, rolling to the floor and shattering. The wind grew stronger. Hewla’s shawl flew back, falling across the fire, and the old woman stumbled against the power of the demon wind.
A dark shape appeared by the wall, silhouetted against icy flames.
Hewla’s hand came up, and a bright light blazed from her fingers, surrounding the demon. The wind died down, but she felt the creature’s elemental power pushing back against the light. A taloned hand clawed through. Flames burst around it, and it withdrew.
A flickering figure appeared to her left, and she saw Zhu Chao’s image forming.
“I have brought an old friend to see you, Hewla,” he said.
“Rot in hell,” she hissed.
He laughed at her. “I see you retain some vestiges of power. Tell me, hag. How long do you think you can hold him from you?”
“What do you want from me?”
“I cannot master the first of the five spells. Something is missing from the grimoires. Tell me and you shall live.”
Once again the taloned hand tore through the light. Flames seared it, but not as powerfully as before. Fear swelled in Hewla’s heart, and had she believed Zhu Ch
ao’s promise, she might have told him. But she did not.
“What is missing is something you will never find—courage!” she said. “You will grow older, your powers fading. And when you die, your soul will be carried screaming to the Void.”
“You foolish old crone,” he whispered. “All the books speak of the Mountains of the Moon. The answers lie there. I shall find them.”
Talons ripped at the light, and it parted like a torn curtain. The dark shape loomed in the room. As swiftly as she could, Hewla drew the small curved dagger from the sheath at her waist.
“I will wait for you in the Void,” she promised.
Holding the dagger blade beneath her left breast, she plunged it home.
Senta sat quietly on the wall of the well, watching Waylander and Miriel some distance away. The man had his hand on the girl’s shoulder. Her head was bowed. Senta did not need to guess the subject of their conversation. He had heard Waylander telling Angel about the death of Miriel’s sister.
Senta looked away. His broken nose was sending shafts of pain behind his eyes, and he felt sick. In his four years in the arena he had not felt pain like this. Minor cuts and once a twisted ankle were all the swordsman had suffered. But then, those fights had been governed by rules. With a man like Waylander there were no rules, only survival.
Despite his pain, Senta felt relieved. He had no doubt that he would have killed the older man in a duel, though if he had, there still would have been Angel to face, and it would have saddened him to slay the old gladiator. But more than that, it would have wrecked any chance with Miriel.
Miriel …
His first sight of her had shocked him, and he still did not know why. The noblewoman Gilaray had a more beautiful face. Nexiar was infinitely more shapely. Suri’s golden hair and flashing eyes were far more provocative. Yet there was something about this mountain girl that had fired his senses. But what?
And why marriage? He could hardly believe he had made the offer. How would she take to life in the city? He focused on her once more, picturing her in a gown of silver satin, pearls laced through her dark hair. And he chuckled.
“What is amusing you?” asked Angel, strolling to where he sat.
“I was thinking of Miriel at the lord protector’s ball, in a flowing dress and with her knives strapped to her forearms.”
“She’s too good for the likes of you, Senta. Far too good.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. Would you sooner see her standing behind a plow, old before her time, her breasts flat, like two hanged men?”
“No,” admitted Angel, “but I’d like to see her with a man who loved her. She’s not like Nexiar or any of the others. She’s like a colt—fast, sleek, unbroken.”
Senta nodded. “I think you are right.” He glanced up at the gladiator. “How very perceptive of you, my friend. You do surprise me.”
“I surprise myself sometimes. Like asking Waylander not to kill you. I’m regretting it already.”
“No, you’re not,” Senta said with an easy smile.
Angel grunted a short obscenity and sat beside the swordsman. “Why did you have to talk of marriage?”
“You think I’d have been better advised to suggest rutting with her under a bush?”
“It would have been more honest.”
“I don’t think it would,” Senta answered softly. He became aware of Angel staring at him and felt himself blushing.
“Well, well,” said Angel. “That I should live to see the great Senta smitten. What would they say in Drenan?”
Senta grinned. “They’d say nothing. The entire city would be swept away under an ocean of tears.”
“I thought you were going to marry Nexiar. Or was it Suri?”
“Beautiful girls,” agreed Senta.
“Nexiar would have killed you. She damn near did for me.”
“I heard the two of you were close once. Is it true that she was so repulsed by your ugliness that, when in bed, she insisted you wear your helmet?”
Angel laughed. “Close. She had a velvet mask made for me.”
“Ah, but I like you, Angel. Always did. Why did you ask him to spare me?”
“Why didn’t you kill him when he approached you?” countered Angel.
Senta shrugged. “My great-grandfather was a congenital idiot. My father was convinced I took after him. I think he was right.”
“Answer the question, damn you!”
“He had no weapon in his hand. I have never killed an unarmed man. It’s not in me. Does that satisfy you?”
“Aye, it does,” admitted Angel. His head came up, nostrils flaring. Without a word he strode back to the cabin, emerging moments later with his sword strapped to his waist. The sound of walking horses came to Senta, and he loosened his sabers in their scabbards but remained where he was at the well. Belash came into sight, stepping from the cabin doorway, knife in his right hand, whetstone in his left. Waylander said something to Miriel, and she vanished into the cabin. Then the black-garbed warrior lifted his double crossbow from the hook on his belt, swiftly drawing back the strings and notching two bolts into place.
The first of the horsemen came into view. He wore a full-faced helm of gleaming black metal, a black breastplate, and a bloodred cloak. Behind him came seven identical warriors, each riding a black gelding, none less than sixteen hands high. Senta stood and strolled to where Waylander and the others were standing.
The horsemen reined in before the cabin, the horses forming a semicircle around the waiting men. No one spoke, and Senta felt his skin crawl as he scanned the black knights. Only their eyes could be seen through thin rectangular slits in the black helms. The expressions were all the same: cold, expectant, confident.
Finally one of them spoke. Senta could not tell which one, for the voice was muffled by the helm.
“Which of you is the Wolfshead Dakeyras?”
“I am,” replied Waylander addressing the rider directly before him.
“The master has sentenced you to death. There is no appeal.”
The knight reached a black gauntleted hand to his sword hilt, drawing the blade slowly. Waylander started to lift the crossbow, but his hand froze, the weapon still pointing at the ground. Senta looked at him, surprised, and saw the muscles of his jaw clench, his face redden with effort.
Senta drew the first of his sabers and prepared to attack the horsemen, but even as the blade came clear, he saw one of the horsemen glance toward him, felt the man’s cold stare touch him like icy water. Senta’s limbs froze, a terrible pressure bearing down on him. The saber sagged in his hand.
The black knights dismounted, and Senta heard the whispering of steel swords being drawn from scabbards. Something bounced at his feet, rolling past him. It was the whetstone Belash had been carrying.
He struggled to move, but his arms felt as if they were made of stone.
And he saw a black sword rising toward his throat.
Inside the cabin Miriel lifted Kreeg’s crossbow from the wall, flicking open the winding arms and swiftly rotating them, drawing the string back to the bronze notch. Selecting a bolt, she pressed it home and swung back toward the door.
A tall knight stepped into the doorway, blocking the light. For a moment only she froze. Then the bow came up.
“No,” whispered a sibilant voice in her mind.
A terrible lethargy flowed into her limbs, and she felt as if a stream of warm, dark water were seeping through the corridors of her mind, drawing out her soul, emptying her memories. It was almost welcome, a cessation of fear and concern, a longing for the emptiness of death. Then a bright light flared deep within her thoughts, holding back the black tidal wave of warm despair. And she saw, silhouetted against the light, the silver warrior who had rescued her as a child.
“Fight them!” he ordered. “Fight them, Miriel! I have opened the doorways to your talent. Seek it! And live!”
She blinked, and tried to aim the crossbow, but it was so heavy, so terribly heavy…
>
The black knight walked farther into the room. “Give me the weapon,” he said, his voice muffled by the helm. “And I will give you joys you have not yet even dreamed of.” As he approached, Miriel saw Waylander on his knees in the dust of the clearing, a black-bladed sword raised above his head.
“No!” she shouted. The crossbow tilted to the right. She squeezed the bronze trigger. The bolt slashed through the air, plunging into the black helm and disappearing up to the flights. The black knight toppled forward.
Outside, Waylander, suddenly free of the spell, threw himself to the left as the sword hissed down. Hitting the ground on his shoulder, he rolled and let fly the first of his bolts. It took the swordsman under the right armpit, cleaving his lungs.
A dark shadow fell across him. Waylander rolled again, but not swiftly enough. A black sword flashed toward his face. The hound sprang across the fallen man, its great fangs closing on the swordsman’s wrist. Belash took one running step, then launched himself feetfirst at the knight, cannoning the man from his feet. The Nadir landed lightly and hurled himself on the assailant, driving his knife under the chin strap of the black helmet and up into the man’s brain.
The hound’s angry growling panicked the horses. They reared and, save for one gelding, bolted.
Free of the spell, Senta brought up his saber, barely blocking the blade thrusting for his throat. He parried a second cut and, twisting his wrist, sent a vicious return that clanged against the knight’s neck gorget of reinforced chain mail. Senta shoulder-charged the warrior, spinning him from his feet. A second man attacked, but this time Senta swayed aside from the killing thrust and rammed his saber up under the man’s helmet, the point slicing through the soft skin beneath the chin and up through his mouth. The knight fell back. Senta lost hold of the saber and drew his second blade.
Angel, his back to the cabin wall, was battling against two knights, the former gladiator desperately blocking and parrying. Waylander sent a bolt through the thigh of the first assailant. The man grunted in pain and half turned. Angel’s sword smashed against the knight’s helm, cutting through the chin strap. The helm fell loose. Waylander’s sword cleaved the man’s skull. Angel sidestepped a lunge from the second knight, grabbed the man’s arm, and hauled him headfirst into the wall. Dropping to the man’s back, Angel took hold of the helm, dragging it back and sharply to the left. The knight’s neck snapped with a stomach-wrenching crack.