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

'How far is it to this fortress?'

'We will be in the valley by the dawn,' said Belash glumly.

'You don't sound too enthusiastic, my friend.'

'It is a place of much evil.' Belash opened the pouch at his side and removed the bones, which he held pressed between his palms. He sighed. 'I think Belash will die there,' he said.

'What are those things?' asked Senta, seeking to change the subject.

'The right hand of my father. He was killed, a long time ago now, and still I am no closer to avenging him.'

'What happened?'

'He had ponies to sell and rode to the market at Namib. A long way. He went with my brother and Anshi Chen. Only Anshi survived the attack. He was behind the herd, and when the raiders struck, Anshi fled.'

'That's why there is such anger between you? Because he was a coward?'

'He is no coward!' snapped Belash. 'There were too many of the raiders, and it would have been stupid to fight. No, Anshi and I loved the same woman. She chose him. But he is a fine chieftain, may my tongue turn black for admitting it. I tried to track the raiders. I found my father's body, took these bones and buried the rest. But the tracks were too old. Anshi watched as my father was struck down. He saw the man who dealt the death blow; he described him to me. I have lived since then in the hope of finding him – a white-haired warrior, with eyes the colour of blood.'

'There's still time,' said Senta.

'Maybe.' Belash levered himself to his feet, and wandered away along the wall, speaking to the defenders, kneeling beside the wounded and the dying.

Senta stretched himself out, lying back with his head on his hands, watching the stars appear in the darkening sky. The air was fresh and cool, the bonded rocks below his back feeling almost soft. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again Miriel was beside him. He smiled, 'I fell asleep,' he said. 'But I dreamt of you.'

'Something lascivious, I have no doubt.'

He sat up and stretched. 'No. We were sitting in a field by a stream, beneath the branches of a willow. We were holding hands. Like this.' Reaching out he took her hand, raising it to his lips.

'You never give in, do you?' she said, pulling back from his touch.

'Never! Why don't you kiss me, beauty? Just the once. To see if you like it.'

'No.'

'You cut me to the bone.'

'I think you'll survive.'

'You are frightened, aren't you? Frightened of giving. Frightened of living. I heard you with Angel last night, offering yourself to him. It was a mistake, beauty, and Angel was right to say no. Insane, but right. What is it you fear?'

'I don't want to talk about this,' said Miriel, making to rise. Reaching out he lightly touched her arm.

'Talk to me,' he said softly.

'Why?' she whispered.

'Because I care.'

She sank back and for a while, said nothing. He did not press her, but sat beside her in silence. At last she spoke. 'If you love someone you open all the doors into your heart. You let them in. When they die you have no defences. I saw my father's pain when . . . when Mother was killed. I don't want that pain. Ever.'

'You can't avoid it, Miriel. No one can. We are like the seasons – we grow in spring, mature in summer, fade in the autumn and die in the winter. But it is foolish to say, "It is springtime but I will grow no flowers for they must fade." What is life without love? Perpetual winter. Cold and snow. It's not for you, beauty. Trust me.'

His hand stroked her hair and he leaned in close, his lips brushing her cheek. Slowly she turned her head and his mouth touched hers.

An arrow sailed over the wall, and the sound of pounding feet echoed in the pass.

'The Gothir have immaculate timing,' he said, rising up and drawing his sword.

Angel was uneasy as he stood on the rim of the valley, looking out over the moonlit grassland and the gentle hills. In the distance he could see the turrets and walls of Kar-Barzac, close to a wide flat lake the colour of old iron. Nadir women and children were moving down into the valley in a long, shuffling line, many of them dragging carts piled high with their possessions. Angel switched his gaze to the rearing mountains that circled the valley, scanning the twisted peaks. This was all open ground, and he thought of the defenders manning the three passes, and prayed the rearguard would hold. For if the Gothir forced their way through any one pass . . .

He closed his mind to the pictures of carnage.

Most of the Nadir warriors had ridden ahead to the fortress, the majority of those remaining defending the passes. Only thirty men rode with the women and children, shepherding them towards Kar-Barzac. Angel swung into the saddle and rode down the hill, his mood lifting as he saw the mute Nadir boy marching beside an overloaded cart, Angel's cloak upon his scrawny shoulders and in his right hand a length of wood, shaped like a sword. The cloak was dragging in the dust. Angel rode alongside the boy and leaned down, lifting him in the air and perching him on the saddle behind him. The boy grinned and waved his wooden sword in the air.

Touching heels to the gelding Angel galloped the horse towards the front of the line where Belash rode beside the Nadir war chief, Anshi Chen. The two warriors were deep in conversation. Anshi looked up as Angel approached. He was a stocky man, running to fat, and his dark eyes showed only hostility as the Drenai reined in.

'We are moving too slowly,' said Angel. 'It will be dawn soon.'

Belash nodded. 'I agree, but many are old. They can move no faster.'

'They could if they left those carts behind.'

Anshi Chen sniffed loudly, then hawked and spat. 'Their possessions are their lives,' he said. 'You would not understand that, Drenai, for yours is a land of plenty. But each of those carts carries far more than you see. A lantern of bronze may be just a light in the dark to you, but it might have been made by a great-grandfather a century ago, and prized ever since. Every item has a value far greater than you can comprehend. Leaving them behind would be a knife in the soul to any family here.'

'It is not a knife in the soul that concerns me,' said Angel. 'It is a knife in the back. But this is your war.' Swinging the horse's head he rode back along the line.

There were more than three hundred people filing on to the valley floor, and he guessed it would be another two hours before the last of them reached the fortress. He thought of Senta and Miriel back at the wall, and Waylander on his lonely journey to Gulgothir.

The stars were fading now, the sky lightening.

And his unease grew.

The white-haired Innicas moved back from the shelter of the boulder to where his brother knights waited. 'Now,' he told them. "The moment is here.' Gathering the reins of his black stallion he vaulted into the saddle, drawing the black sword from the scabbard at his side. One hundred warriors mounted their horses and waited for his order. Innicas closed his eyes, seeking the Communion of Blood. He felt the flowing of the souls, tasted their anger and their need, their bitterness and their desires. 'Let not one Nadir live,' he whispered. 'All dead. Gifts to the Lord of All Desires. Let there be pain. Let there be fear and anguish. Let there be despair!' The souls of his knights fluttered in his mind like black moths, circling the dark light of his hatred. 'What do we need?' he asked them.

'Blood and death,' came the reply, hissing in his mind like a host of snakes.

'Blood and death,' he agreed. 'Now let the spell grow. Let fear flow out over our enemies like a flood, a raging torrent to drown their courage.'

Like an invisible mist the spell rolled out, drifting over rock and shale, down on to the valley, swelling, growing.