He looked up and was about to ask Miriel to throw when she suddenly hurled the board high. The sunlight seared his eyes, but he waited until the spinning board reached its highest point. Extending his arm, he pressed the first bronze trigger. The bolt flashed through the air, hammering into the board, half splitting it. As it fell, he released the second bolt. The board exploded into shards.
“Horrible man!” she said.
He made a low bow. “You should feel privileged,” he told her, holding back his smile. “I don’t usually perform without payment.”
“Throw again,” she ordered him, restringing the crossbow.
“The wood is broken,” he pointed out.
“Throw the largest piece.”
Retrieving his bolts, he hefted the largest chunk of wood. It was no more than four inches across and less than a foot long. “Are you ready?”
“Just throw!”
With a flick of his wrist he spun the chunk high into the air. The crossbow came up, and the bolt sang, plunging into the wood. Waylander applauded the shot. Miriel gave an elaborate bow.
“Women are supposed to curtsy,” he said.
“And they are supposed to wear dresses and learn embroidery,” she retorted.
“True,” he conceded. “How do you like the assassin’s bow?”
“It has good balance, and it is very light.”
“Ventrian ebony, and the stock is hollowed. Are you ready for some swordplay?”
She laughed. “Is your pride ready for another pounding?”
“No,” he admitted. “I think we’ll have an early night.” She looked disappointed as they gathered their weapons and set off back to the cabin. “I think you need a better swordmaster than I,” he told her as they walked. “It is your best weapon, and you are truly skilled. I’ll think on it.”
“I thought you were the best,” she chided.
“Fathers always seem that way,” he said dryly. “But no. With bow or knife I am superb. With the sword? Only excellent.”
“And so modest. Is there anything at which you do not excel?”
“Yes,” he answered, his smile fading.
Increasing his pace, he walked on, his mind lost in painful memories. His first family had been butchered by raiders, his wife, his baby girls, and his son. The picture was bright in his mind. He had found the boy lying dead in the flower garden, his little face surrounded by blooms.
And five years before, having found love a second time, he had watched helplessly as Danyal’s horse had struck a hidden tree root. The stallion had hit the ground hard, rolling, trapping Danyal beneath it and crushing her chest. She had died within minutes, her body racked with pain.
“Is there anything at which you do not excel?”
Only one.
I cannot keep alive those I love.
2
RALIS LIKED TO tell people he had been a tinker since the stars were young, and it was not far from the truth. He could still remember when the old king, Orien, had been a beardless prince, walking behind his father at the spring parade on the first road called the Drenai Way.
Now it was the Avenue of Kings and much wider, leading through the triumphal arch built to celebrate victory over the Vagrians.
There had been so many changes. Ralis had fond memories of Orien, the first Battle King of the Drenai, wearer of the Armor of Bronze, victor in a hundred battles and a score of wars.
Sometimes, when he was sitting in lonely taverns, resting from his travels, the old tinker would tell people of his meeting with Orien soon after the battle at Dros Corteswain. The king had been hunting boar in Skultik Forest, and Ralis, young then and dark-bearded, had been carrying his pack toward the fort town of Delnoch.
They had met at a stream. Orien had been sitting on a boulder, his bare feet submerged in the cold water, his expensive boots cast aside. Ralis had released the straps of his pack and moved to the water’s edge, kneeling to drink.
“The pack looks heavy,” the golden-haired king had said.
“Aye, it is,” Ralis had agreed.
“A tinker, are you?”
“Aye.”
“You know who I am?”
“You’re the king,” Ralis had said.
Orien had chuckled. “You’re not impressed? Good for you. I don’t suppose you have any ointment in that pack. I have blisters the size of small apples.”
Ralis had shaken his head and spread his arms apologetically. At that moment a group of young noblemen had arrived on the scene, surrounding the king. They had been laughing and shouting, bragging of their skills.
Ralis had left unnoticed.
As the years had passed, he had followed the king’s exploits almost as if gathering news of an old friend. Yet he doubted if the memory of their meeting had survived for more than a moment or two with the king himself. It was all different now, he thought, as he hitched his pack for the walk up to the cabin. The country had no king, and that was not right. The Source would not look kindly upon a country without a prince.
Ralis was breathing heavily as he topped the last rise and gazed down on the flower-garlanded cabin. The wind died down, and a beautiful silence settled over the forest. He took a deep breath. “You can both step out here,” he said softly. “I may not be able to see you, but I know you’re close by.”
The young woman appeared first. Dressed in leggings of oiled black leather and a tunic of gray wool, she rose from the undergrowth and grinned at the old man. “You’re getting sharper. Ralis,” she observed.
He nodded and turned to his right. The man stepped into view. Like Miriel he wore leggings of black leather and a tunic shirt, but he also sported a black chain-mail shoulder guard and a baldric from which hung three throwing knives. Ralis swallowed hard. There was something about this quiet mountain man that always disturbed the ancient tinker and had ever since they had met on the same mountainside ten years before. He had thought about it often. It was not that Dakeyras was a warrior—Ralis had known many such—nor was it the wolflike way he moved. No, it was some indefinable quality that left Ralis thinking of mortality. To stand close to Dakeyras was somehow to be close to death. He shuddered.
“Good to see you, old man,” said Dakeyras. “There’s meat on the table and cold spring water. Also some dried fruit—if your teeth can manage it.”
“Nothing wrong with my teeth, boy,” snapped Ralis. “There may not be so many as once there were, but those that are left can still do their job.”
Dakeyras swung to the girl. “You take him down. I’ll join you presently.”
Ralis watched him move silently back into the trees. “Expecting trouble, are you?” he asked.
“What makes you ask that?” replied the girl.
“He’s always been a careful man, but he’s wearing chain mail. Beautifully made but still heavy. I wouldn’t think he’d wear it in these mountains just for show.”
“We’ve had trouble,” she admitted.
He followed her down to the cabin, leaving his pack by the door and stretching out in a deep horsehair-padded leather chair. “Getting too old for this life,” he grunted.
She laughed. “How long have you been saying that?” she asked him.
“About sixty years,” he told her. Leaning back, he rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes. I wonder if I’m a hundred yet, he thought. I’ll have to work it out one day, find a point of reference.
“Water or fermented apple juice?” she asked him.
Opening the pouch at his side, he removed a small packet and handed it to her. “Make a tisane of that,” he requested. “Just pour boiling water on it and leave it for a little while.”
“What is it?” she inquired, lifting the packet to her nose and drawing in the scent.
“A few herbs, dill and the like. Keeps me young,” he said with a wide grin.
She left him then, and he sat quietly, drinking in his surroundings. The cabin was well built, the main room long and wide, the hearth and chimney s
olidly constructed of limestone. The south wall had been timbered, and a bearskin hung there. Ralis smiled. It was neatly done, but he had walked these mountains before Dakeyras was born, and he knew about the cave, had sheltered there a time or two. But it was a clever idea to build a cabin against a cave mouth and then disguise the entrance. A man should always have an escape route.
“How long should I leave it brewing?” came Miriel’s voice from the back room.
“Several minutes,” he replied. “When the shredded leaves start to sink, it’ll be ready.”
The weapons rack on the wall caught his eye: two longbows, several swords, a saber, a Sathuli tulwar, and half a dozen knives of various lengths and curves. He sat up. A new crossbow lay upon the table. It was a nice piece, and Ralis levered himself from his chair and picked up the weapon, examining the gold embossing.
“It is a good bow,” said Miriel, striding back into the room.
“It’s better than the man who owned it,” he told her.
“You knew him?”
“Kreeg. A cross between a snake and a rat. Good Guild member, though. Could have been rich if he wasn’t such a bad gambler.”
“He tried to kill my father; we don’t know why.”
Ralis said nothing. Miriel moved to the kitchen, returning with his tisane, which he sipped slowly. They ate in comfortable silence, the old man devouring three helpings of lion meat. Dipping a slab of freshly baked bread into the rich gravy, he looked up at Miriel and sighed. “They don’t eat as well as this in the palace at Drenan,” he said.
“You are a flatterer, Ralis,” she chided him. “But I like it.”
Wandering to his pack, he untied the flap and delved deep into the interior, coming up at last with a corked metal flask and three small silver cups. Returning to the table, he filled the cups with amber liquid. “The taste of heaven,” he said, savoring the moment.
Miriel lifted her cup and sipped the spirit. “It’s like swallowing fire,” she said, reddening.
“Yes. Good, isn’t it?”
“Tell me about Kreeg.”
“Not much to tell. He was from the south, a farm boy originally. Fought in the Vagrian Wars and then joined Jonat for the rebellion. When Karnak smashed the rebel army, Kreeg spent a year or two in Ventria. Mercenary, I think. He joined the Guild three years ago. Not one of their best, you understand, but good enough.”
“Then someone paid him to kill my father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The old man shrugged. “Let’s wait until he gets back.”
“You make it sound like a mystery.”
“I just don’t like repeating myself. At my age time is precious. How much do you remember of your childhood?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Dakeyras. Where did you meet him?” He could see that the question had surprised her and watched her expression change from open and friendly to guarded and wary.
“He’s my father,” she said softly.
“No,” he told her. “Your family was killed in a raid during the Vagrian Wars. And Dakeyras, riding with a man named Dardalion, found you and your sister … and a brother, I believe, in the care of a young woman.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because of Kreeg,” he said, refilling his cup.
“I don’t understand.”
The voice of Dakeyras cut in from the doorway. “He means he knows who Kreeg was sent to kill.” The tall man untied the thong of his black leather cloak and draped it over the chair. Taking up the third silver cup, he tossed back the contents.
“Fifteen thousand in gold,” said Ralis. “Five for the Guild, ten for the man who brings your crossbow to the citadel. There are said to be more than fifty men scouring the country for news of you. Morak the Ventrian is among them, as are Belash, Courail, and Senta.”
“I’ve heard of Morak and Courail,” said Dakeyras.
“Belash is Nadir and a knife fighter. Senta is a swordsman paid to fight duels. He’s very good—old noble family.”
“I expect there is also a large reward for information regarding my whereabouts,” said Dakeyras softly.
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Ralis, “but then, it would be a brave man who betrayed Waylander the Slayer.”
“Are you a brave man?” The words were spoken gently, but the undercurrent was tense and the old man found his stomach knotting.
“More guts than sense,” admitted Ralis, holding the man’s dark gaze.
Waylander smiled. “That’s as it should be,” he said, and the moment passed.
“What will we do?” asked Miriel.
“Prepare for a long winter,” said Waylander.
Ralis was a light sleeper, and he heard the creaking of leather hinges as the main door opened. The old man yawned and swung his legs from the bed. Although it was almost dawn, thin shafts of moonlight were still seeping through the cracks in the shutters of the window. He rose and stretched. The air was cool and fresh with the threat of approaching winter. Ralis shivered and pulled on his warm woolen leggings and tunic.
Opening his bedroom door, he stepped into the main room and saw that someone had fanned the embers of the previous night’s fire and laid fresh kindling on the hungry flames. Waylander was a courteous host, for there would not normally have been a fire this early on an autumn day. Moving to the shuttered window, he lifted the latch and pushed at the wooden frame. Outside the moon was fading in a graying sky, the stars retreating, the pale pink of the dawn showing above the eastern peaks.
Movement caught his eye, and Ralis squinted, trying to focus. On the mountainside, at least a quarter of a mile distant, he thought he saw a man running. Ralis yawned and returned to the fire, easing himself down into the deep leather chair. The kindling was burning well, and he added two seasoned logs from a stack beside the hearth.
So, he thought, the mystery is solved at last. What was surprising was that he felt in such low spirits now. For years he had known Dakeyras and his family: the beautiful wife and the twin girls. And always he had sensed there was more to the mountain man. And the mystery had occupied his mind, perhaps even helping keep him active at an age when most—if not all—of his youthful contemporaries were dead.
A fugitive, a nobleman having turned his back on wealth and privilege, a refugee from Gothir tyranny … all these he had considered as backgrounds for Dakeyras. And more. But the speculation was now over. Dakeyras was the legendary Waylander, the man who had killed King Orien’s son, Niallad. But he was also the hero who had found the hidden Armor of Bronze, returning it to the Drenai people and freeing them from the murderous excesses of the invading Vagrians.
The old man sighed. What fresh mysteries could he find now to exercise his mind and blot out the passing of time and the inevitable approach of death?
He heard Miriel rise from her bed in the far room. She wandered in, tall and slim and naked. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough, girl. You should put some clothes on.” His voice was gruff, the words said in a sharper tone than he had intended. It was not that her nakedness aroused him; it was the opposite, he realized. Her youth and beauty only made him feel the weight of his years looming behind him like a mountain. She returned to her room, and he leaned back in his chair. When had arousal died? He thought back. It had been in Melega that he had first noticed it some fifteen years before. He had hired a whore, a buxom wench, but had been unable to perform despite all her expert ministrations.
At last she had shrugged. “Dead birds cannot rise from the nest,” she had told him cruelly.
Miriel returned, dressed now in gray leggings and a shirt of creamy white wool. “Is that more to your liking, sir tinker?”
He forced a smile. “Everything about you, my dear, is to my liking. But naked you remind me of all that there once was. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” she said, but he knew she was humoring him. What did the youn
g ever understand? Pulling a tall chair to the fireside, she reversed it and sat astride it opposite him, her elbows resting on the high back. “You mentioned some of the men who are hunting my father,” she said. “Can you tell me of them?”
“They are all dangerous men, and there will be those among them I do not know. But I know Morak the Ventrian. He’s deadly, truly deadly. I believe he is insane.”
“What weapons does he favor?” she asked.
“Saber and knife, but he is a very skilled bowman. And he has great speed—like a striking snake. He’ll kill anyone: man, woman, child, babe in arms. He has a gift for death.”
“What does he look like?”
“Medium height, slim. He tends to wear green, and he has a ring of heavy gold set with a green stone. It matches his eyes, cold and hard.”
“I will watch out for him.”
“If you see him, kill him,” snapped Ralis. “But you won’t see him.”
“You don’t think he’ll come here?”
“That’s not what I said. You would both be best advised to leave here. Even Waylander cannot defeat all who are coming against him.”
“Don’t underestimate him, tinker,” she warned.
“I don’t,” he replied. “But I am an old man, and I know how time makes dotards of us all. Once I was young, fast, and strong. But slowly, like water eating at stone, time removes our speed and our strength. Waylander is not a young man. Those hunting him are in their prime.”
She nodded and looked away. “So you advise us to run?”
“Another place, under another name. Yes.”
“Tell me of the others,” she said.
And he did, relating all he had heard of Belash, Courail, Senta, and many more. She listened, mostly in silence but occasionally interrupting him with pertinent questions. At last satisfied that she had drained his knowledge, she stood.
“I will prepare you some breakfast,” she said. “I think you have earned it.”
“What did you gain from my stories?” he asked her.