The young blond noble rose from behind a bush. In his hand was a golden-hilted shortsword – a light ceremonial blade, worn at official functions. ‘Did you learn nothing from your brother’s death?’ asked Waylander.
‘You killed him?’
‘Aye, I killed him,’ said Waylander coldly. ‘I crushed his throat and he choked to death on the floor. As he died he pissed himself. That is what happens. That is the reality. He is gone – and for what?’
‘For honour,’ said the young man. ‘He died for the honour of the family.’
‘Where are your wits?’ snapped Waylander. ‘I loaned your uncle money, and when he could not repay I loaned him more. I did this because he made me promises – promises he failed to keep. Whose is the dishonour? Now your brother is dead. And all so that fat Vanis can avoid financial ruin. A man of his stupidity faced ruin anyway.’ Waylander stepped in close to the young man. ‘I do not want to have to kill you, boy. The last time we met you talked of your engagement to a young woman you adored. You spoke of love and a small estate by the coast. Think on it. If you walk away now I will take this matter no further. If you do not you will certainly die, for I offer no second chances to my enemies.’
He looked into the young man’s eyes, and saw the fear there, and also the pride. ‘I do love Sanja,’ said the noble. ‘But the estate I spoke of belongs – belonged – to my uncle. Without it I have nothing to offer her.’
‘Then I shall give it to you as a wedding gift,’ said Waylander softly, knowing even as he spoke that it was to no avail.
Anger shone in the noble’s eyes. ‘I am of House Kilraith!’ he snapped. ‘I do not need your pity, peasant!’ He leapt forward, the sword slashing through the air. Waylander moved in to meet him, throwing up his left arm to block the blow at the noble’s wrist, and curling his right hand up and behind the sword arm, clamping to it and dragging it back. The noble screamed, the sword dropping from his fingers as his arm snapped. Waylander pushed him away and swept up the fallen blade. The young man fell heavily and rolled to his knees. As he started to rise he felt the cold iron point of the blade against his throat. ‘Don’t kill me,’ he begged.
A great sadness descended on Waylander as he looked into the frightened blue eyes. He took a deep breath. ‘Too late,’ he said. The blade plunged home, slashing through the jugular. Blood gouted from the severed vein and the noble fell back, his legs kicking out. Waylander let fall the sword and, turning his back, walked the last few steps to his quarters.
Another man was waiting there, sitting quietly, cross-legged upon the ground. He wore a pale grey, chequered robe, and a long Chiatze blade, scabbarded, was resting in his lap. He was a small man, round-shouldered, his face thin. He looked up as Waylander approached. ‘You are a hard man,’ he said.
‘So they say,’ replied Waylander coldly. ‘What do you want?’
The Chiatze rose, pushing his scabbarded sword into the black sash at his waist. ‘Matze Chai will be returning to his home soon. It is my desire to stay in Kydor. He said you might have need of a Rajnee. I see now that you do not.’
‘Why do you wish to stay?’ asked Waylander. ‘Is there not employment enough within Chiatze lands?’
‘There is a mystery I must solve,’ the Rajnee told him.
Waylander shrugged. ‘You are welcome here as long as you wish to stay,’ he said. ‘If you arrived with Matze Chai you will already have been given lodging. But I can offer no work for a swordsman.’
That is most kind, Grey Man.’ The Rajnee sighed. ‘I must, however, inform you that I am carrying a … a burden.’
At that moment, from the path behind them, came a cry of shock and surprise. Waylander turned. A stocky, bearded Chiatze ran into view carrying a long, curved sword. He was wearing a roughly made garment fashioned from wolfskin. ‘There’s a body!’ he said, his voice shrill. ‘On the path. Had his throat cut!’ He peered around at the surrounding vegetation. ‘There are assassins,’ he added. ‘They could be anywhere. We should get inside. Call the guards!’