In the Realm of the Wolf (6 page)

“I know you, Morak. I know why you are here. That should be enough.”

“It would—” he started to say, but she attacked again, and this time he was not quite fast enough, her blade slicing past his face and cutting his earlobe. His fist lashed out and up, thundering against her chin. Half-stunned, Miriel lost her grip on her sword and fell to her knees. The newcomer’s blade touched her neck. “Enough of this nonsense,” he said, moving away from her and picking up his cloak.

Gathering her sword, she faced him again. “I will not let you pass,” she said grimly.

“You couldn’t stop me,” he told her, “but it was a game effort. Now where is Waylander?” She advanced again.

“Wait,” he said, sheathing his sword. “I am not Morak. You understand me? I am not from the Guild.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, her blade now resting on his throat.

“Then believe this: Had I wished to kill you, I would have. You know that is true.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Angel,” he answered, “and a long time ago I was a friend to your family.”

“You are here to help us?”

“I don’t fight other men’s battles, girl. I came to warn him. I see now it was unnecessary.”

Slowly she lowered her sword. “Why are they hunting him? He has harmed no one.”

He shrugged. “Not for many a year, I’ll grant you that, but
he has many enemies. It is one of the drawbacks of an assassin’s life. Did he teach you to use a sword?”

“Yes.”

“He ought to be ashamed of himself. Swordfighting is heart and mind in perfect harmony,” he said sternly. “Did he not tell you that?”

“Yes, he did,” she snapped.

“Ah, but like most women you listen only when it suits you. Yes, I can see that. Well, can you cook?”

Holding back her temper, she gave him her sweetest smile. “I can. I can also embroider, knit, sew, and what else? Ah, yes …” Her fist cracked against his chin. Standing alongside the fallen tree, he had no time to move his feet and steady himself, and a second blow sent him sprawling across the trunk to land in a mud patch on the other side. “I almost forgot,” she said. “He taught me to fight with my fists.”

Angel pushed himself to his knees and slowly rose. “My first wife was like you,” he said, rubbing his chin. “A dreadful woman, soft as goose down on the outside, baked leather and iron inside. But I’ll say this, girl—he did a better job of teaching you to punch than he did to thrust. Can we have a truce now?”

Miriel chuckled. “Truce,” she agreed.

Angel rubbed his swollen jaw as he walked behind the tall mountain woman. A kick like an angry horse and a punch almost as powerful. He smiled ruefully, his eyes watching the way she moved, graceful yet economical. She fought well, he conceded, but with too much head and too little instinct. Even the punches she had thrown had been ill disguised, but Angel had allowed them to land, sensing that she had needed some outlet for her frustration at having been so easily defeated.

A proud woman. And attractive, he decided, somewhat to his surprise. Angel had always favored big-breasted women, buxom and comfortable, warm between the sheets. Miriel was a mite thin for his taste, and her legs, though long and beautifully proportioned, were just a little too muscular. Still, as the saying went, she was a woman to walk the mountains with.

He chuckled suddenly, and she turned. “Something is amusing you?” she asked, her expression frosty.

“Not at all, Miriel. I was just remembering the last time I walked these mountains. You and your sister would have been around eight, maybe nine. I was thinking that life goes by with bewildering speed.”

“I don’t remember you,” she said.

“I looked different then. This squashed nose was aquiline, and my brows boasted hair. It was long before the mailed gloves of other fistfighters cut and slashed at the skin. My mouth, too, was fuller. And I had long red hair that hung to my shoulders.”

She leaned in close, peering at him. “You were not called Angel then,” she announced.

“No. I was Caridris.”

“I remember now. You brought me a dress—a yellow dress—and a green one for Krylla. But you were …”

“Handsome? Yes, I was. And now I am ugly.”

“I did not mean …”

“No matter, girl. All beauty passes. I chose a rough occupation.”

“I don’t understand how any man would wish to pursue such a way of life. Causing pain, being hurt, risking death—and for what? So that a crowd of fat-bellied merchants can see blood flow.”

“I used to think there was more to it,” he said softly, “but now I will not argue with you. It was brutal and barbaric, and mostly I loved it.”

They walked on to the cabin. After he had eaten, Angel sat down by the dying fire and pulled off his boots. He glanced at the hearth. “A little early for fires, isn’t it?”

“We had a guest, an old man,” said Miriel, seating herself opposite him. “He feels the cold.”

“Old Ralis?” he inquired.

“Yes. You know him?”

“He’s been plying his trade between Drenan and Delnoch for years—decades. He used to make knives the like of which I’ve never seen since. Your father has several.”

“I’m sorry I struck you,” she said suddenly. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“I’ve been struck before,” he answered with a shrug. “And you were angry.”

“I am not usually so … short-tempered. But I think I am a little afraid.”

“That is a good way to be. I’ve always been careful around fearless men—or women. They have a tendency to get you killed. But take some advice, young Miriel. When the hunters come, don’t challenge them with the blade. Shoot them from a distance.”

“I thought I was good with a sword. My father always tells me I am better than he is.”

“In practice, maybe, but in combat I would doubt it. You think out your moves, and that robs you of speed. Swordplay requires subtle skills and a direct link between hand and mind. I’ll show you.” Leaning to his right, he lifted a long twig from the tinderbox and stood. “Stand opposite me,” he ordered her. Then, holding the stick between his index fingers, he said: “Put your hand over the stick and, when I release it, catch it. Can you do that?”

“Of course, it is—” As she was answering him, he opened his fingers. The twig dropped sharply. Miriel’s hand flashed down, her fingers closing on air, and the twig landed at her feet. “I wasn’t ready,” she argued.

“Then try again.”

Twice more she missed the falling twig. “What does it prove?” she snapped.

“Reaction time, Miriel. The hand should move as soon as the eye sees the twig fall, but yours doesn’t. You see the twig. You send a message to your hand. Then you move. By this time the twig is falling away from you.”

“How else can anyone catch it?” she asked him. “You have to tell your hand to move.”

He shook his head. “You will see.”

“Show me,” she demanded.

“Show her what?” asked Waylander from the doorway.

“She wants to learn to catch twigs,” said Angel, turning slowly.

“It’s been a long time, Caridris. How are you?” asked the mountain man, the small crossbow pointing at Angel’s heart.

“Not here looking for a kill, my friend. I don’t work for the Guild. I came to warn you.”

Waylander nodded. “I heard you retired from the arena. What do you do now?”

“I sold hunting weapons. I had a place in the market square, but it was sequestered against my debts.”

“Ten thousand gold pieces would buy it back for you,” said Waylander coldly.

“Indeed it would, five times over. But as I have already told you, I do not work for the Guild. And do not even think of calling me a liar!”

Waylander pulled the bolts clear of the weapon, then released the strings. Dropping the bow to the table, he turned back to the scarred fighter. “You are no liar,” he said. “But why would you warn me? We were never close.”

Angel shrugged. “I was thinking of Danyal. I didn’t want to see her widowed. Where is she?”

Waylander did not reply, but Angel saw the color fade from his face and a look of anguish that was swiftly masked. “You may stay the night,” said Waylander. “And I thank you for your warning.” With that he took up his crossbow and left the cabin.

“My mother died,” whispered Miriel. “Five years ago.” Angel sighed and sank back in his chair. “You knew her well?” she asked.

“Well enough to be a little in love with her. How did she die?”

“She was riding. The horse fell and rolled on her.”

“After all she’d been through … battles and wars …” He shook his head. “There’s no sense to such things, none at all. Unless it be that the gods have a grim sense of humor. Five years, you say. Gods! He must have adored her to stay alone this long.”

“He did. He still does, spending too much time by her grave, talking to her as if she could still hear him. He does that here sometimes.”

“I see it now,” Angel said softly.

“What do you see?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Miriel? The killers are gathering: assassins, hunters, stalkers of the night. He cannot kill them all; he knows that. So why is he still here?”

“You tell me.”

“He’s like the old stag hunted by wolves. It takes to the high
ground, knowing it is finished, and then it turns and waits, facing the enemy for one last battle.”

“But he’s not like that stag. He’s not old! He’s not! And he’s not finished, either.”

“That’s not how he sees it. Danyal was what he lived for. Perhaps he thinks that in death they will be reunited; I don’t know. What I
do
know—and so does he—is that to stay here means death.”

“You are wrong,” said Miriel, but her words carried no conviction.

3

F
LOATING ON A
sea of pain, Ralis knew he was dying; his arms were tied behind him, the skin of his chest was seared and cut, his legs were broken. All his dignity had been stripped from him in the screams of anguish the knives and hot irons had torn from his soul. There was nothing of the man left save one small flickering spark of pride.

He had told them nothing. Cold water drenched him, easing the pain of the burns, and he opened his one remaining eye. Morak knelt before him, an easy smile on his handsome face.

“I can free you from this pain, old man,” he said. Ralis said nothing. “What is he to you? A son? A nephew? Why do you suffer this for him? You have walked these mountains for what … fifty, sixty years? He’s here, and you know where he is. We will find him anyway, eventually.”

“He … will … kill you … all,” whispered Ralis.

Morak laughed, the others following his lead. Ralis smelled the burning of his flesh moments before the pain seared into his skull. But his throat was hoarse and bleeding from screaming, and he could only utter a short, broken groan.

And suddenly, wonderfully, the pain passed and Ralis heard a voice calling to him.

He rose from his bonds and flew toward the voice. “I did not tell them, Father,” he shouted triumphantly. “I did not tell them!”

“Old fool,” said Morak as he stared at the corpse sagging against the ropes. “Let’s go!”

“Tough old man,” put in Belash as they left the glade. Morak rounded on the stocky Nadir tribesman.

“He made us waste half a day, and for what? Had he told us at the start, he would have walked off with ten, maybe twenty gold pieces. Now he’s dead meat for the foxes and the carrion birds. Yes, he was tough. But he was also stupid.”

Belash’s jet-black eyes stared up into Morak’s face. “He died with honor,” muttered the Nadir. “And great will be his welcome in the Hall of Heroes.”

Morak’s laughter welled out. “The Hall of Heroes, eh? They must be getting short of men if they need to rely on elderly tinkers. What stories will he tell around the great table? How I sold a knife for twice its worth or how I mended a broken cook pot? I can see there’ll be some merry evenings ahead for all of them.”

“Most men mock what they can never aspire to,” said Belash, striding on ahead, his hand on his sword hilt.

The words cut through Morak’s good humor, and his hatred of the little Nadir welled anew. The Ventrian swung to face the nine men who followed him. “Kreeg came to these mountains because he had information that Waylander was here. We’ll split up and quarter the area. In three days we’ll meet at the foot of that peak to the north, where the stream forks. Baris, you go into Kasyra. Ask about Kreeg, who he stayed with, where he drank. Find out where he got his information.”