‘Aye, it is,’ said the man, who returned to Drenan and pocketed his reward. The skull and crossbow had then been exhibited in the Marble Museum.
Once more Waylander had journeyed to far places, choosing the distant realm of Kydor and attempting to immerse himself in a life of riches and plenty.
Yet now he had become the assassin once more. Not through necessity but through false pride.
It was not a pleasant thought.
Perhaps, he thought, when the ship comes in ten days’ time, and I journey across the ocean, I will find a life that does not involve violence and death. A world without people, a vast land of soaring mountains and trickling streams. I could be content there, he decided.
Deep inside he could almost hear the mocking laughter.
You will always be Waylander the Slayer. It is your nature.
Ustarte the Priestess stood by the window. Far below her she could see the Grey Man sitting beside the waterfall. Even from here she could feel his shame. She turned from the window. Her three shaven-headed acolytes waited silently at the table. Their thoughts were troubled, their emotions strong. Prial was the most fearful, for he was the most imaginative. He was remembering the cage and the whips of fire. His heart was beating wildly.
The powerful, brooding Menias also felt fear, but it was leavened by frustration and anger. He hated the Masters with all of his being, and dreamt of the day he could Change and tear into them, ripping the flesh from their bones. He had not wanted to escape through the gateway. He had urged them all to remain and fight on.
Corvidal was the calmest of the three, but then he was the most content. All he desired was to be in the company of Ustarte. The priestess felt his love, and though she could not return it in the way he desired she still found great joy in it, for it had freed him from the hatred that still chained Menias. The simple fact that love could conquer hate gave Ustarte hope.
‘Do we go?’ asked the golden-eyed Prial.
‘Not yet.’
‘But we have failed,’ said Menias, the shortest and heaviest of the three. ‘We should go home, find others who have survived, and continue the fight.’
Ustarte returned to the table, her heavy red silk gown rustling as she moved. The dark-eyed, slender Corvidal rose and drew back her chair. She glanced into his gentle face and smiled her thanks as she sat down. How could she tell Menias that none of the others had survived, that she had felt their death even from beyond the gateway. ‘I cannot just leave these people to the fate awaiting them.’
They sat in silence once more. Then Prial spoke. ‘The gateways are opening. The killers in the mist have already been seen. The Kriaz-nor will follow soon. The puny weapons of this world will not stop them, Ustarte. I have no wish to view the horrors to come.’
‘And yet the people of this world defeated them three thousand years ago,’ she said.
‘They had greater weapons then,’ said Menias, his voice deep and low.
She felt the frustration in him, and the anger. ‘Where did they gain the knowledge for such weapons?’ she countered. ‘And where are those weapons now?’
‘How can we know?’ put in Corvidal. ‘The legends speak of fantastic gods, demons and heroes. There is no history of that period in this world. Only fable.’
‘And yet there are clues,’ said Ustarte. ‘All the legends speak of a war among the gods. That suggests to me that there was discord in Kuan-Hador, and that at least some of them sided with humanity. How else could they have created the swords of light? How else could they have won? Yes, we have failed in our attempt to prevent the opening of the gates, and we have failed so far in our search to discover what happened to the weapons humanity used to win the first war. However, we must go on.’
‘It is too late for this world, Ustarte,’ said Prial. ‘I say we should use the last of the power to open a gateway.’