In the Realm of the Wolf (4 page)

“Don’t try to evade the issue,” she scolded, snatching the board from him and walking back ten paces. He chuckled and shook his head, accepting defeat. Carefully he eased back the steel string of the lower bow arm. The spring-loaded hook clicked, and he inserted a short black bolt, gently pressing the notch against the string. Repeating the maneuver with the
upper bow arm, he adjusted the tension in the curved bronze triggers. The weapon had cost him a small fortune in opals many years before, but it had been crafted by a master and Waylander had never regretted the purchase.

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

R
ALIS 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 solidly 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.”