“You see anything?” asked Angel.
“Lancers. They are riding for the fortress.”
“You think they might be looking for us?” put in Senta.
Waylander shrugged. “Who knows? Karnak is anxious to see me dead. By now my description could be with every army unit within fifty miles.”
Miriel rose and strolled to the hilltop, crouching behind a screen of gorse to gaze down on the lancers. For some minutes she remained motionless, then she returned to the group. “The officer is Dun Egan,” she told Waylander. “He is tired and hungry and thinking about a woman he knows in a tavern by Wall Two. And yes, he has your description. Twenty of his men are behind us, to the southwest. They have orders to apprehend you.”
“What now?” asked Angel.
Waylander’s expression was grim. “Across the mountains,” he said at last.
“The Sathuli are fine fighters, and they don’t like strangers,” Senta pointed out.
“I’ve been through before. To kill me they have to catch me.”
“You intend going alone?” asked Miriel softly.
“It is best,” he replied. “You and the others make for Delnoch. I will find you beyond the mountains.”
“No. We should be together. My talents can keep us safe.”
“There’s truth in that,” Angel observed.
“Perhaps there is,” agreed Waylander, “but against that, five riders raise more dust than one. Five horses make more noise than one. The high passes exaggerate every sound. A falling stone can sometimes be heard half a mile away. No. I go alone.” Miriel started to speak, but he touched a finger to her lips. “No more argument, Miriel,” he said with a smile. “I have hunted alone for more than half my life. I am at my strongest alone. Go to Delnoch and, once through the fortress, head due north. I will find you.”
“I will be with you,” she whispered, leaning in close and kissing his cheek.
“Always,” he agreed.
Moving to his mount, Waylander swung into the saddle and touched his heels to the gelding’s side. The hound loped alongside as the black-garbed rider crested the hill. The lancers were tiny dots in the distance now, and Waylander gave them not a moment of thought as he angled toward the rearing Delnoch peaks.
Alone.
His spirits soared. Much as he loved Miriel, he felt a great release, a sense of freedom from the burdens of company. Glancing down at the hound, he chuckled. “Not entirely alone, eh, Scar?” The dog cocked its head to one side and ran on, sniffing at the ground, seeking rabbit spoor. Waylander drew in a deep breath. The air was fresh and cold, blowing down from the snow-topped peaks. The Sathuli would be building their winter stores now, their thoughts far from raiding and war. With skill and a little luck he should be able to ride the high passes and the echo-haunted canyons without their knowledge.
A little luck? He thought of the route ahead: the narrow ice-covered trails, the treacherous slopes, the frozen streams, the realms of the wolf, the bear, and the mountain lion.
Fear touched him, and he laughed aloud. For with the onset of fear he felt the pounding of his heart, the rushing of blood in vein and muscle, the strength in his arms and torso. Right or wrong he knew this was what he had been born for, the lonely ride into danger, enemies all around. For what was fear if not the wine of life, and the taste of it thrilled him anew.
I have been dead these last five years, he realized. A walking corpse, though I did not know it. He thought of Danyal and found himself remembering the joys of their life without the sharp, jagged bitterness at her passing. The mountains loomed, gray and threatening.
And the man rode on.
Miriel sat silently in the garden of the tavern, staring down over the colossal walls of Dros Delnoch. The journey to the fortress had passed without incident save for the bickering between Angel and Belash. At first Miriel found it hard to understand the hatred festering within the gladiator, and so she used her talent. She shivered at the memory and switched her line of thought. Her father would now be traveling through the lands of the Sathuli. A fiercely independent people, they had crossed the sea from the deserts of Ventria three hundred years before, settling in the Delnoch mountains. She knew little of their history save that they believed in the words of an ancient prophet and were persecuted for their beliefs in their home country. They were a solitary race, hardy and ferocious in battle and permanently at war with the Drenai.
She sighed. Waylander would not cross their lands without a fight, she knew, and she prayed he would come through safely.
Behind the three tavern buildings the ancient keep reared between the narrows of the Delnoch Pass. Impressive and strong, the keep was dwarfed by the new fortress that now filled the valley. Miriel scanned the immense structure with its crenellated battlements of reinforced granite and its massive gate towers and turrets.
“They call it Egel’s Folly,” said Angel, moving alongside her and handing her a goblet of watered wine. Senta and Belash followed him from the tavern and sat on the grass with Miriel. “Each of the walls is more than sixty feet high, and the barracks can accommodate thirty thousand men. Some of them have never been used. Never will be.”
“I have never seen anything like it,” she whispered. “The sentries on the first wall seem as small as insects from here.”
“A magnificent waste of money,” said Senta. “Twenty thousand laborers, a thousand stonemasons, fifty architects, hundreds of carpenters. And all built for a dream.”
“A dream?” inquired Miriel.
Senta chuckled and turned to Belash. “Yes. Egel said he saw a vision of Belash and a few of his brothers—a veritable ocean of warriors gathering against the Drenai. Hence this monstrosity.”
“It was built to keep out the Nadir?” asked Miriel, disbelieving.
“Indeed it was, Miriel,” said Senta. “Six walls and a keep. The largest fortress in the world to thwart the smallest enemy. For not one Nadir tribe numbers more than a thousand warriors.”
“But there are more than a thousand tribes,” pointed out Belash. “The Uniter will bring them all together. One people. One king.”
“Such are the dreams of all poor peoples,” said Senta. “The Nadir will never unite. They hate each other as much as—if not more than—they hate us. They are always at war. And they take no prisoners.”
“That’s not true,” hissed Angel. “They do take prisoners, and then they torture them to death. Men, women, and children. They are the most despicable race.”
“No true Nadir would torture children,” said Belash, his dark eyes angry. “They are killed swiftly.”
“I know what I saw!” snapped Angel. “And do not think to call me a liar!”
Belash’s hand moved to his knife. Angel’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. Miriel stepped between them. “We will not fight among ourselves,” she said, laying her hand on Angel’s arm. “There is evil in all races, but only a foolish man condemns an entire people.”
“You did not see what I saw!” he told her.
“But I have seen it,” she said softly. “The overturned wagons, the looting, and the deaths. And I can see your father with his arm around you, holding his cloak before your eyes. It was an evil day, Angel, but you must let it go. The memory is poisoning you.”
“Stay out of my head!” he roared suddenly, pulling back from her and striding toward the tavern.
“He carries demons in his soul,” said Belash.
“We all carry them,” added Senta.
Miriel sighed. “He was only nine years old when he saw the attack, and the screams have been with him ever since. But he no longer sees the truth—perhaps he never did. His father’s cloak blocked the most savage of the sights, and he does not remember that there were others in the attack who were not Nadir. They wore dark clothes, and their weapons were of blackened steel.”
“Knights of blood,” said Belash.
Miriel nodded. “I believe so.”
Belash rose. “I
shall stroll and look at this fortress. I wish to see these walls my people inspired.”
He wandered away, and Senta moved alongside Miriel. “It is nice to be alone,” he said.
“You are picturing me on a bed covered with sheets of satin. It does not please me.”
He grinned. “It is not courteous to read a man’s thoughts.”
“It does not concern you that I know what you are thinking?”
“Not at all. There is nothing to shame me. You are a beautiful woman. No man could sit with you for long without thinking of satin sheets, or soft grass, or summer hay.”
“There is more to life than rutting!” she told him, aware that she was blushing.
“How would you know, beauty? You have no experience of such things.”
“I’ll never marry you.”
“You cut me to the quick, beauty. How can you make that judgment? You don’t know me yet.”
“I know enough.”
“Nonsense. Take my hand for a moment.” Reaching out, he gently clasped her wrist, his fingers sliding down over hers. “Never mind my thoughts. Feel my touch. Is it not gentle? Is it not pleasing?”
She snatched back her hand. “No, it is not!”
“Ah ha! Now you lie, beauty. I may not have your talents, but I know what you felt. And it was far from unpleasant.”
“Your arrogance is as colossal as these walls,” she raged.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “And with good reason. I am a very talented fellow.”
“You are conceited and see no farther than your own desires. So tell me, Senta, what is it that you offer me? And please, no boasts about the bedchamber.”
“You say my name so beautifully.”
“Answer my question, damn you. And do remember that I shall know if you are lying.”
He smiled at her. “You are for me,” he said softly, “as I am for you. What would I offer you? Everything I have, beauty,” he whispered, his eyes holding to hers. “And everything I will ever have.”
For a moment she was silent. “I know that you believe the words as you say them,” she said. “But I do not believe you have the strength to live by them.”
“That may be true,” he admitted.
“And you were prepared to kill Angel and my father. You think I can forgive that?”
“I hope so,” he told her. And in that moment she saw within his thoughts a flickering image, a remembrance that he was struggling to keep hidden. It shocked her.
“You weren’t planning to kill Angel! You were ready to die.”
His smile faded, and he shrugged. “You asked me to spare him, beauty. I thought perhaps you loved him.”
“You didn’t even know me; you don’t know me now. How could you be prepared to lay down your life in that way?”
“Do not be too impressed. I like the old man. And I would have tried to disarm him, wound him, maybe.”
“He would have killed you.”
“Would you have been sorry?”
“No, not then.”
“But you would be now?”
“I don’t know … yes. But not because I love you. You have had many women, and you have told them all that you loved them. Would you have died for them?”
“Perhaps. I have always been a romantic. But with you it is different. I know that.”
“I do not believe love can strike that swiftly,” she said.
“Love is a strange beast, Miriel. Sometimes it leaps from hiding and strikes like a sudden spear. At other times it can creep up on you slowly, skillfully.”
“Like an assassin?”
“Indeed so,” he agreed with a bright smile.
11
JAHUNDA NOTCHED AN arrow to his bowstring and waited for the rider to emerge from the trees. His fingers were cold, but his blood ran hot with the hunt. The Drenai had chosen his route with care, avoiding the wide, much-used paths and keeping to the narrow deer trails. But even so Jahunda had spotted him, for the Lord Sathuli had ordered him to watch the south from Chasica Peak and no one could enter Sathuli lands from the Sentran Plain without being observed from Chasica. It was a great honor to be so trusted, especially for a fourteen-year-old with no blood kills to his name. But the Lord Sathuli knows I will be a great warrior and hunter, thought Jahunda. And he chose me for this task.
Jahunda had sent up a signal smoke, then had clambered down from the peak, making his way carefully to the first ambush site. But the Drenai had cut to the right, angling up into the high pass. Hooking his bow over his shoulder, Jahunda ran to the second site, overlooking the deer trail. The Drenai had to emerge there. He chose his arrow with care and hoped he could make the kill before the others arrived. Then the horse would be his by right, and a fine beast it looked. He closed his eyes and listened for the soft clopping of hooves in the snow. Sweat was seeping from under his white burnoose, and fear made his mouth dry. The Drenai was no merchant. This one was a careful man who knew where he was riding and the danger he was in. That he traveled there at all spoke well of his bravery and his confidence. Jahunda was anxious that the first shaft should strike a mortal blow.
There was no sound from the snow-shrouded trees, and Jahunda risked a glance around the boulder.
Nothing.
But the man had to be close. There was no other route. Jahunda inched his way to the left and leaned out Still nothing. Perhaps the rider had doubled back. Maybe he should have waited by the first site. Indecision rippled through him. The Drenai could be relieving himself against a tree, he told himself. Give it time! His heart was beating fast, and he tried to calm himself. But the horse was magnificent! He could sell it and buy Shora a shawl of silk and one of those bangles with the blue stones that Zaris sold at ridiculously high prices. Oh, how Shora would love him if he arrived at her father’s house bearing such gifts. He would be an acclaimed warrior, a hunter, a defender of the land. It would hardly matter then that he could not yet grow a beard.
He heard the clop of hooves and swallowed hard. Wait! Be patient. He drew back on the string and glanced up at the sun. It would cast a shadow from high and to the right of the rider, and from his hiding place behind the boulder Jahunda could time his attack perfectly. He licked his lips and watched for the shadow of the horse. As it drew alongside the boulder, he stepped out, bow raised.
The saddle was empty. There was no rider.
Jahunda blinked. Something hard struck the back of his head, and he fell to his knees, his bow falling from his fingers. “I am dying!” he thought, and his last thoughts were of the beautiful Shora.
He felt rough hands shaking him and slowly came to consciousness.
“What happened, boy?” asked Jitsan, the Lord Sathuli’s chief scout.
He tried to explain, but one of the other hunters came up, tapping Jitsan’s shoulder. “The Drenai sent his horse forward then moved around behind the boy and clubbed him. He is heading for Senac Pass.”
“Can you walk?” Jitsan asked Jahunda.
“I think so.”
“Then go home, child.”
“I am ashamed,” said Jahunda, hanging his head.
“You are alive,” Jitsan pointed out, rising and moving off swiftly, the six hunters following him.
There would be no horse for the young Sathuli warrior now. No bangle. No shawl for Shora.
He sighed and gathered up his bow.
Waylander dismounted, leading the gelding up the steep slope. Scar padded alongside him, not liking the cold snow under his paws. “There’s worse to come,” said the man.
He had seen the signal smoke and watched with grim amusement the antics of the young Sathuli sentry. The boy could not have been more than fourteen. Callow and inexperienced, he had run too swiftly for the ambush site, leaving easily seen footprints leading to the boulder behind which he hid. There had been a time when Waylander would have killed him. “You’re getting soft,” he scolded himself aloud, but he did not regret his action.
At the top of the slope he halted, shadin
g his eyes from the snow glare and seeking out the route to Senac Pass. It was twelve years since he had come this way, and that had been summertime, the slopes of the mountains green and verdant. The wind was biting through his jerkin, and he untied his fur-lined cloak from behind his saddle and unrolled it, fastening it into place with a brooch of bronze and a leather thong.
He studied the trail behind him then walked on, leading the gelding. The trail was narrow, wending its way down a snow-covered slope of scree and onto a long, twisting ledge no more than four feet wide. To the right was the mountain, to the left a dizzying drop into the valley some four hundred feet below. In summer the journey across the ledge had been perilous enough, but now, ice-covered and treacherous …
You must be insane, he told himself. He started to walk, but the gelding held back. The wind was whistling across the mountain face, and the horse wanted no part of such a venture.
“Come on, boy!” urged Waylander, tugging on the reins, but the gelding would not move. Behind the horse Scar let out a deep, menacing growl. The gelding leapt forward, almost sending Waylander over the edge. He swayed on the brink, but his hold on the reins saved him and he pulled himself back to safety. The ledge wound on around the mountain face for almost a quarter of a mile until, just beyond a bend, it was split by a steep scree slope leading down into the valley.
Waylander took a deep breath and was just about to step onto the scree, when Scar growled again. The horse lurched forward, pulling the reins from Waylander’s hand. The beast hit the scree headfirst and tumbled down the slope. An arrow flashed past Waylander’s head. Spinning, he drew two knives. Scar leapt to attack the first Sathuli to come into sight around the bend behind them. The hound’s great jaws snapped at the archer’s face. Dropping his bow, the warrior threw himself back, cannoning into a second man, who fell from the ledge, his scream echoing away. Scar hurled himself upon the first man, fangs locking to the man’s forearm.
Waylander moved closer to the rock face as a third Sathuli edged into sight. The warrior raised his tulwar over the hound. Waylander’s arm snapped forward, the black-bladed knife slicing between the man’s ribs. With a grunt he dropped the tulwar and fell to his knees before toppling to his face in the snow.