‘Take care,’ offered Gurion, extending his hand.
‘And you, my friend. Were I you, I’d head back across the river. Those beasts are hunting me – they’ll not be back to trouble you.’
For three days he rode warily, covering his tracks as best he could, angling along swift-moving streams and over rocky slopes, disguising both his scent and his spoor. But lie doubted his efforts would do more than delay his demonic pursuers. Added to this, he had to watch out for human foes.
Twice he stopped at Notas camps and once shared a meal with a small group of hunters. The four men had greeted him coolly and considered robbing him. But there was something about the tall southlander which kept them at bay – not his bow, his knives or his sword, more a calculating look in his eyes and a subtle confidence in his stance. So they had fed him and watched him depart with evident relief.
At nightfall a larger band of Nadir descended on the hunters, questioning them at length before killing them horribly.
The bodies were discovered the following day by nine Brotherhood warriors whose arrival disturbed the vultures. The riders did not stay long.
Towards dusk the first of the Shapeshifters came upon the scene, drawn by the scent of blood. Saliva dripped from its maw and its red eyes gleamed. The vultures scattered as it approached, their great wings flapping to lift their bloated bodies from the ground. Through superhuman efforts they made their way to the branches of surrounding trees, where they glowered down at the new invaders.
The other wolf-beasts emerged from the undergrowth and approached the remains. One pushed its snout into the bloody carcasses and, overcome by hunger, closed its jaws upon a piece of meat and bone. Then it coughed and spat the flesh from its mouth. Its howl rent the air.
And the four beasts loped towards the north.
Forty miles on, Waylander was close to the southern edge of the mountain range. Here the Steppes were jagged, deep canyons appearing and slashing across the land like a gigantic knife-cut. Trees and streams abounded within the canyons and, here and there, deserted huts and houses dotted the landscape. Wild sheep and goats grazed on the slopes, while to the north-east Waylander saw a herd of wild horses cropping grass beside a waterfall.
Urging his mount onward, he descended the slope into a shaded wood.
The land here was good, richer than the arid Steppes, the thick, black earth as fertile as any on the Sentran Plain. Yet there were no farms. No grain or wheat, nor fruit trees, nor golden corn.
For the Nadir were a nomadic race: hunters, warriors and killers who built nothing, caring little for the bleakness of their future. ‘Conquer or die’ was the most common phrase among the tribes. Though ultimately, Waylander realised, the phrase should have been conquer and die.
What future could there be for a people of no foundation?
Where were the books, the poems, the architecture, the philosophy? All the vast panoply of civilisation?
The Nadir were doomed – the future dust of history, bonded by blood and war and skimming across the surface of the planet like a vicious storm.
What purpose did they serve, he wondered? Scattered tribes full of hate, warring one upon the other, they could never be welded into one people.
That, at least, was a small blessing, for it meant that never would the tribesmen trouble the peoples of the south. But then they had troubles enough of their own.
Waylander made a brief camp in a cave at the far side of the canyon. Taking a stiff brush from his saddlebag, he worked to ease the burrs from his horse’s back and then led him to water. He prepared a small fire and made some broth from his dried meat before snatching two hours’ sleep. Back in the saddle, he started on the long climb out of the canyon. He studied his back trail often and now, for the first time since leaving the ferry, he saw his pursuers. As he crested the skyline to the north, they were entering the canyon from the south.