‘I stood and laughed as Aldania died,’ said Aric, his voice trembling. ‘I joyed in the butchery. And I killed Rena and Zarea.’
‘Not you, Aric,’ repeated Chardyn. ‘The magicker is the real evil. Put down the dagger, and help us find a way to destroy him.’
Aric relaxed and Chardyn released his hand. The lord of Kilraith rose slowly to his feet and turned to Lalitia. ‘I am so sorry, Red,’ he told her. ‘At least I can apologize to you. I can never ask forgiveness from the others.’ He swung to Chardyn. ‘I thank you, priest, for returning to me that which was stolen from me. I cannot help you, though. The guilt is too great.’ Chardyn was about to speak, but Aric held up his hand. ‘I hear what you say about Eldicar, and there is truth in it. But I made the choice. I allowed him to kill a man to feed my vanity. Had I been stronger my Rena and little Zarea would still be alive. I cannot live like this.’
Moving past them he went to the door and opened it. Without a backward glance he strolled out into the night. Climbing into his carriage he bade the driver take him to Willow Lake.
Once there he dismissed the man and walked past the deserted villa and out to the moonlit shores. He sat down by the jetty, and pictured again the glorious day when he and his daughter had laughed and played in the sunshine.
Then he cut his throat.
Lord Panagyn had always believed himself immune to fear. He had fought battles and faced enemies all his adult life. Fear was for lesser men. Thus it was that he did not at first recognize the trembling in his belly, or the first tugs of panic pulling at his mind.
He ran headlong through the forest, his arms thrashing aside the overhanging vegetation, ignoring the twigs and thin branches that snapped back against his face. He stopped by a gnarled oak to catch his breath. Sweat had soaked his face, and his close-cropped iron-grey hair lay damp against his skull. Looking around he was no longer sure where he was in relation to the trail. But that did not matter now. Staying alive was all that counted. Unused to running, his legs were cramped and painful, and he sank to his haunches. His scabbard caught against a tree root, ramming the hilt of his cavalry sabre against his ribs. Panagyn grunted with pain, and shifted to his left, lifting the scabbard clear.
A cool breeze filtered through the trees. He wondered if any of his men had survived. He had seen some of them run, throwing aside their crossbows and trying to make it back to the cliffs. Surely Waylander could not have killed them all! It was not humanly possible. One man could not slay twelve skilled fighting men!
‘Do not treat this man lightly,’ Eldicar Manushan had warned him. ‘He is a skilled killer. According to Matze Chai, he is the finest assassin this world has seen.’
‘You want him brought in alive or dead?’ Panagyn had asked.
‘Just kill him,’ said Eldicar. ‘Be advised that there is a woman with him gifted with far-sight. I shall surround you and your men with a cloak-spell that will prevent her from sensing you. But this will not prevent Waylander, or any of the others, from seeing you with their eyes. You understand?’
‘Of course. I am not an idiot.’
‘Sadly, in my experience, that is exactly the phrase most used by idiots. As to the priestess, we would prefer her to be taken alive, but this may not be possible. She is a Joining – a were-creature. She can become a tiger. Once in that form you will have to kill her. If you can take her while in her semi-human guise, bind her wrists and ankles and blindfold her.’
‘What of the others?’
‘Kill them all. They are of no use.’
Panagyn had chosen his twelve men with care. They had all fought beside him in a score of battles. Cool men, hardy and tough, they would not panic or run. Equally they would think nothing of killing captives.