David Gemmell - Waylander II - In The Realm of the Wolf

Then Galen had introduced him to the Lord Zhu Chao. And the promises began. When Karnak – that bloated, self-obsessed tyrant – was dead it would be Bodalen who would rule the Drenai. And he could fill his palace with concubines and slaves. A lifetime of pleasure, free from restraint. What price those promises now?

He shivered and swung to see the dark, hawk-like Gracus riding just behind him, the other riders following in a silent line. 'Almost there, Lord Bodalen,' said Gracus, unsmiling.

Bodalen nodded, but did not reply. He knew he lacked his father's physical courage, but he lacked nothing of his intelligence. Zhu Chao no longer saw him as a person of value. He was being used as an assassin.

Where had it all gone wrong? He licked his lips. That was easy to answer. When that damned girl had died.

Waylander's daughter.

What a cursed trick of fate!

His horse reached the crest of the trail and Bodalen gazed down on a green valley, with sparkling streams. It was some two miles across and perhaps four deep, and at the centre reared an ancient fortress with four turrets and a portcullis gate. Bodalen blinked and rubbed his eyes. The turrets were leaning and twisted, the walls uneven, as if the earth had reared up below the structure. And yet it still stood.

Gracus drew alongside. 'Kar-Barzac,' he said.

'It looks like something fashioned by a drunken man,' said Bodalen.

Gracus shrugged, unconcerned. 'We can shelter there,' he answered.

Slowly the eleven riders filed down into the valley. Bodalen could not take his eyes from the citadel. The windows, archers' slits, were not straight but crooked, each a different height, some canted, others stretched. 'It couldn't have been built like that, surely?' he asked Gracus. One of the towers leaned out at an impossible angle, and yet there were no cracks in the great stones. As they grew closer Bodalen remembered a visit to an armoury when he was a child. Karnak had showed him a great furnace. They had thrown an iron helm into the fire and the boy had watched as it slowly melted. Kar-Barzac was like that helm.

They rode across the valley and Gracus pointed at a nearby tree. The trunk was split and had curled around itself, forming a weird knot. And the leaves were sharp and long, five-pronged and red as blood. Bodalen had never seen a tree like it.

As they neared the citadel they saw the half-eaten carcass of a bighorn sheep. Gracus angled his mount to ride close to the body. Bodalen followed him. The sheep's eyes were gone, but the head remained, mouth wide open.

'By the blood of Missael!' whispered Bodalen. The sheep had short, pointed fangs.

'This valley is bewitched!' said one of the men.

'Be silent!' roared Gracus, dismounting. He knelt by the carcass. 'It looks as if it has been chewed by rats,' he said. 'The bite-marks are small.' He stood and swung into the saddle.

Bodalen felt his unease growing. Everything in this valley seemed unnatural. Sweat rolled down his back. He glanced at Gracus, noting the beads of perspiration on his brow. 'Is it just fear, or is it hotter here?' he asked the warrior.

'It's hotter,' answered Gracus. 'But that's often the way with mountain valleys.'

'Not this hot, surely?'

'Let's get to the castle,' said Gracus.

A horse screamed and reared, unseating the rider. Instantly a host of rat-like creatures swarmed from the long grass, leaping on the man, covering him in a blanket of grey striped fur. Blood spouted from a score of wounds. Gracus swore and kicked his horse into a gallop, Bodalen following him.

No one even looked back.

The ruined gates of the castle loomed before them and the ten remaining riders galloped into the courtyard beyond. This too was uneven, but showed no cracks, nor breaks in the marble. Bodalen swung down from the saddle and ran to a rampart stair, climbing swiftly to the crooked battlements. Out on the valley floor all was still, save for the writhing, grey fur mounds where once had been horse and man.

'We can't stay here!' said Bodalen, as Gracus joined him at the battlements.

'The master has ordered it. That is an end to the matter.'

'What were those things?'

'I don't know. Some kind of small cat, perhaps.'

'Cats don't hunt like that,' insisted Bodalen.

'Rats! Cats! What difference does it make? The master says to hide here and kill Kesa Khan. That we will do.'

'But what if there are creatures like that living below the castle? What then, Gracus?'

'We will die,' answered the warrior, with a grim smile. 'So let us hope there are none.'

Waylander lay flat, he and Scar part-covered by his cloak, reversed now so that the sheepskin lining merged with the snow around him. His right arm was stretched out over the dog and he stroked the broad head. 'Stay silent, boy,' he whispered. 'Our lives depend on it.' No more than sixty paces back down the trail seven Sathuli warriors were examining tracks in the snow. The gash in Waylander's leg was healing fast, but the wound in his upper left arm nagged at him. They had almost surprised him two days before, laying an ambush in a narrow pass. Four Sathuli had died in the attack, a fifth left mortally wounded, his lifeblood gushing from a tear in the great artery at the groin. Scar had killed two, but had it not been for a sudden change in the direction of the wind which alerted the hound, Waylander would now be dead. As it was his arm ached, the wound constantly leaking blood. It was too far back for him to stitch the tear, and too close to the shoulder joint to bandage. A low rumbling growl began in Scar's throat, but he patted the dog, whispering soothing words.

The seven Sathuli were trying to make sense of the tracks leading up the hill. Waylander knew what they were thinking. The human footprints were leading north, but the tracks of the hound went both up and down the hill. The Sathuli were confused. At the top of the slope the trail narrowed, a huge boulder by the trees making an ideal hiding-place. Not one of the warriors wanted to walk that slope, fearing a hidden crossbowman. Waylander could not hear their arguments, but he saw two of them gesticulating, pointing to the east. Waylander had taken a chance, moving carefully up the slope, then retracing his steps, walking backwards, placing his feet in the tracks he had made during the climb. Then he had lifted Scar, hurling the yelping hound into a snow drift to the left of the trail. A long branch overhung the slope here and Waylander had leapt to grasp it, moving hand over hand until he dropped to the ground by the trunk. Then, the huge hound beside him, he had hunkered down to wait for the Sathuli.

He was cold and wet. Reversing the cloak made him almost invisible in the snow, but it also countered the heat-retaining qualities of the sheepskin and he began to shiver.

The Sathuli concluded their discussions. Three men moved up the slope, two heading to the right of the trail and two to the left.

Waylander winced as he pulled his crossbow into position, the wound in his arm seeping fresh blood. Silently he eased himself back, moving behind a snow-covered screen of bushes, then traversing the slope and climbing to where several fallen trees had created a latticed wall on the hillside. Scar padded behind him, tongue lolling from his massive jaws.

The two Sathuli came in sight. Both carried short hunting bows, arrows notched. Waylander laid his hand on Scar's shoulder, gently pushing him down. 'Quiet now!'

The white-robed warriors drew alongside the tree wall. Waylander rose, arm extended. The first bolt flew, punch­ing through the leading warrior's temple. He dropped without a sound. The second swung, dropped his bow and drew his tulwar.

'Face me like a man, blade to blade!' he demanded.

'No,' replied Waylander. The second bolt slashed through the man's robe, cleaving into his heart. His mouth opened. The tulwar dropped from his hand. He took two tottering steps towards Waylander, then pitched to his face in the snow.